


Unstoppable

by dansunedisco



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Being a Better Person 101, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Friendship, Girl Power, Historical, Humor, Literal Rom-Com Vibes, POV Alternating, Racism, Romance, who runs the ton?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: As the eldest daughter of a gentleman farmer, it is Charlotte’s duty to marry and, if at all possible, marry well. When the opportunity to accompany Lady Worcester during London’s Season presents itself, she is ushered into a world where only two acceptable roads lay before a young woman: matrimony or spinsterhood.Sidney Parker is a successful businessman decidedly not in want of a wife. In fact, the only prospect more unappealing would be to become saddled with a witless and unworldly country girl for the rest of his life.-As the saying goes, “We plan; God laughs.”
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood & Esther Denham, Charlotte Heywood & Georgiana Lambe, Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker
Comments: 441
Kudos: 388





	1. Found Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, folks.
> 
> First, I want to say I have exactly zero self-control.
> 
> Second, this story follows the premise that Tom and Mary Parker's carriage did not stumble through Willingden, but instead, the Heywoods have a well-to-do relative by whose doing allows Charlotte to meet Lady Susan.
> 
> Third, a HUGE part of this story is female friendship. Like, Georgiana's storyline left me wanting as hell, and I've been desperately wanting to write a better ending than whatever tf we got, so... I hope I will do right by her.
> 
>  **As a warning and as tagged** , there is talk (and acts of) racism and prejudice in this story. I am going to try my best to navigate through these topics sensitively, while still doing the story I'm telling justice. Please, let me know if/how I can do better as the story progresses.

“Miss Lambe,” said Charlotte, “could I tempt you into taking a turn about the room with me?”

The young ladies only recently introduced, Charlotte did not take offense to the skeptical and, truthfully, frosty reception her offer received. 

Amused twittering broke out along the standing wall; ungracious smirks and the delighted flapping of fans.

Ignoring them, Charlotte extended her arm to act as an olive branch. Perhaps in this case the analogy of prodding a hornet’s nest with a stick was more apt. To be refused would have meant a terrible cut, but damage to her own reputation sat secondary to the nagging belief that Miss Lambe was in a terrible need of rescue.

“Nothing could delight me more,” said Miss Lambe finally. She looped her arm through Charlotte’s. With nary a glance back as they proceeded, she said aloud, “The air on this side of the room is stuffy and dour.”

Affronted murmurs followed in their wake.

Charlotte barely concealed her shock. In the group stood more than one titled young lady. The rest were well-bred daughters of aristocrats and well-heeled, wealthy merchantmen -- well-to-do, connected, and likely unforgiving.

However, she could not form the words of warning, or to press a rebuke to her new friend’s ear. 

The ladies had been cruel. Unseasonably so. Under the guise of teasing, they had made several disparaging remarks upon Miss Lambe’s heritage and asked questions they most certainly would not have asked among their own circle. It had horrified Charlotte to see, and horrified her more to remain an ignorant bystander.

Flashes of unbridled anger had peeked through the icy shroud that surrounded Miss Lambe, and something in Charlotte’s own willful nature had spurred her into action. As much as she wished to turn on her heel and march back to the line of ladies and give every single one of them a piece of her mind, causing a scene at one of the first balls of the Season would decidedly not do. She suspected it would only further Miss Lambe’s torment.

“Thank you,” said Miss Lambe, after a moment. The skirts of her prettily made dress swished as they walked.

“It is I who should be thanking you, Miss Lambe.” She pressed her lips together in a tight smile. “I had to excuse myself for I felt I was on the verge of making very unladylike remarks… or three. What’s more, I believe I am now in better company.”

Miss Lambe glanced at her. It was an assessing look, and one Charlotte was sure was well-practiced. The story of Miss Lambe’s life must precede her everywhere she went. Charlotte had in fact witnessed it ripple through the crowd when she’d been announced. Just as some sought to bring her down for callous amusement, certainly there were others who would court her favor for selfish purposes. 

Charlotte couldn’t imagine navigating between that world; trying to find true friends in a sea of smiling faces.

“I was on the edge myself,” Miss Lambe said finally. A small quirk to her mouth revealed a playful smile. “I know I should not listen to the incessant baying of goats, but oh, how they tried me tonight.”

Charlotte choked on a scandalized laugh. “They are jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Yes. You have the most beautiful dress here tonight,” she said. “You’ve outshone them without even lifting a finger.”

Miss Lambe looked down. “You are too kind.”

“I promise you I am not… but I _have_ been called unattractively honest.”

They shared a smile.

During the course of their lap, an easy rapport settled between the two young ladies.

Charlotte dutifully explained how an innocuous invitation for a ball had changed the course of her fate. As the eldest daughter of a gentleman farmer, her time in Society was tightly corralled to Willingden itself. But then, one morning, a post had come from her godmother -- a well-connected widow with no daughters of her own -- and somehow Mama had convinced Mr. Heywood to bundle her up in a carriage with her finest evening dresses and shuttle her off for a fortnight.

“The dance made the assembly hall in Willingden look like a barn in comparison,” she said; and, in truth, the assembly hall very well could have been repurposed from that end for all she knew. “I became so turned around that I stumbled upon another woman reading in a private alcove. Of course, I made to remove myself immediately, but she was-- kind. We sat and talked, and before I knew it, the midnight bell was struck and it was time for me to go home…"

“And then?”

“In three days’ time, I received a letter.” Though it had been months since that elegant fold of paper with its crested wax seal had landed in her lap, it still felt like a dream. “The woman I had befriended was none other than Lady Worcester.”

“My goodness!” Miss Lambe’s hand tightened on hers. “And she is your patroness?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Oh, I can hardly bring myself to say it is so.”

The offer had come as a true surprise. To her and to all the Heywoods.

“Only our little Lottie,” Mama had said distantly. She’d spent many minutes turning Lady Worcester’s letter this way and that, as if she’d expected a new sentence to jump forth in the ink and detail the great jest the offer had been.

Mr. Heywood had remained stonily silent throughout the ordeal, but there was no way to refuse the offer without causing an affront to one of the most powerful women in the _ton_.

Charlotte had not understood her father’s trepidation until the night she was set to depart.

“With Lady Worcester’s help, you’ll easily find a suitable husband,” Alison had said. As the closest sisters in age, they were also the best of friends, and frank talk came easily between them. “Maybe you’ll even catch yourself a Duke! And if you do, you _must_ secure me his most handsome and splendidly titled younger brother.”

She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a sordid romance novel you pretend you don't read. Have some sense. I have nothing to offer… No dowry, no title.” Only herself.

“But you’re so beautiful. And accomplished!”

“Not so beautiful or accomplished as to earn a ducal offering, even if I wanted one.”

“Where is your imagination? Just say we’ve some long-lost French royalty in the blood.”

“Which would be a blatant lie.” Their father had always said, in his stoically humorous way, that the Heywood lineage could be proudly traced back to the time of William the Conquerer. “And what is all this talk of catching husbands, anyway? You’re only seventeen!”

Alison’s eyes had shone humorously in the candlelight. “And you are two-and-twenty. Why, I see a wart growing right there on your chin already--”

“Oh, hush.”

But Alison had been right. As the eldest daughter, it was Charlotte’s lot in life to marry and, if at all possible, marry well. Accompanying Lady Susan through the London Season was a great honor; enough that it may induce a younger son to offer for her hand, if only to secure a connection to the Earl of Worcester. It would have been an outstanding showing for a woman so far down on the rung of social status… but the prospect did not excite Charlotte as perhaps it should.

She was not yet close to being called an old maid, but time was tick-tocking away, faster and faster with each year that passed. Spinsterhood loomed with an increasingly overbearing shadow. Though she knew she would never be cast off the Heywood estate, the idea of forever being under her family’s charge did not sit well -- but neither did exchanging the protection of her father to that of her would-be husband. She valued what little independence she had, after all.

 _What radical ideas_...

Gently shaking her head, she came back to reality in the ballroom and Miss Lambe’s curious gaze.

“I’ve decided I quite like you, Miss Heywood,” said Miss Lambe suddenly, yet firmly. “We will be very good friends, I think.”

She flushed. Miss Lambe was rather more direct than any other young lady she’d ever met, bar except for perhaps herself in the heat of the moment. It was rather refreshing. “It would be an honor to be called your friend, Miss Lambe.”

“Then please… call me Georgiana.”

“So I shall, as long as you will call me Charlotte.”

They shared another smile under the golden light of the ballroom chandelier, pleased to have found one another at long last.

Their lap around the room came to an end soon enough, and whatever waves they’d made upon their departure had since settled. They were not blatantly ostracized, but neither were they included in the idle chit-chat. This suited Charlotte just fine. She suspected Georgiana felt the same.

A lively quadrille was struck up by the orchestra, and one by one, gentlemen came to collect their dance partners.

Georgiana subtly snapped her fan open. “Oh, drat. This one belongs to Lord Babington.” 

At that very moment, Lord Babington was fast approaching.

“Shall I feign a broken ankle? Apoplexy?”

“You may swoon into my arms if you must,” Charlotte teased, but sobered quickly as it seemed Georgiana was actually contemplating a bout of vapors. “Oh, please do not. He seems very agreeable. And kind.”

“Yes, but he’s--”

Georgiana’s protests were cut off by the arrival of the lord. He seemed a fair bit older than both the young ladies -- perhaps between five and ten years their senior -- and had a healthy, friendly cheer about him. He sketched a quick bow in greeting, though he remained formally un-introduced to Miss Heywood as no matron was available to make it, and made off with Charlotte’s new friend.

Only she and another young lady -- Miss Esther Denham -- were left along the wall. Charlotte tried not to feel disheartened even as a slew of unattached gentlemen milled about. Her dress was fashionable enough in color and design, but it was very simple compared to the frills, lace and jeweled belts of her peers. At a glance, she was remarkably unremarkable. A sea pebble amid diamonds and pearls.

“Are you fond of dancing, Miss Heywood?” asked Miss Denham. Her tone was almost bored.

“I-- I rather am,” she said. She hadn’t heard Miss Denham speak all night. “I find it to be very diverting.”

Miss Denham’s eyes snapped to hers. “How would you know? You haven’t had the pleasure all night.”

“Then we’re on equal footing,” she snapped, and immediately regretted it.

Instead of acrimony or dismissal, however, a slow smile spread across Miss Denham’s face. She was quite a beautiful woman; auburn hair and hazel eyes. An elegant neck and a clear complexion. She was as close to refined perfection as anyone could be, and her lack of dancing partners was indeed a surprise -- except she had a very clever and bruising way of dismissing anyone who dared try to take her to the floor. In fact, Charlotte had witnessed her rebuff Lord Babington earlier in the night.

“Forgive me,” said Charlotte, but Miss Denham waved her off with an elegant flick of her wrist.

“No, you’re quite right,” she said. “Though I’d say my current state is rather of my own doing, hm? Come, sit with me.”

Charlotte obeyed, settling her skirts with practiced ease.

“I will let you know my secret, Miss Heywood. They are all terribly lacking,” said Miss Denham in conspiratorial fashion. “Mr. Crowe over there could drink an entire estate under-- and there goes Sir Wallace, who’s a lecherous old windbag-- and Lord Peregrin in the corner is the youngest son of the Duke of Kingston. He acts as if he owns half of Wiltshire but he will be lucky enough to be housed in the rectory behind their drafty, dreary castle with how he gambles.”

The list of offenses continued on, and very few gentlemen were spared. 

“Oh my,” breathed Charlotte. It was all very shocking talk.

“That is why I decline. I cannot suffer fools.”

“How do you manage it?”

Miss Denham smirked. “Why, the same way you managed all the ladies here with Miss Lambe. With discretion… and barely veiled contempt.”

Charlotte flushed. “Was it that bad?”

“No, I enjoyed it very much,” she replied. “You’ve established yourself well.”

For a moment, Charlotte thought Miss Denham meant to give offense, but realized that she was in fact quite sincere. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been waiting a very long time for Lady Pandora and her insipid circle to be put in their place,” said Miss Denham. “It’s a shame it took reinforcements from Antigua and the countryside to make it so.”

The music drew to a ringing end, and a jaunty intermission tune allowed for the exchange of partners.

Lord Babington brought Georgiana back, who seemed in much better spirits than when she’d initially left, and Charlotte made the rash decision to intervene on Miss Denham’s behalf. While she had expounded upon all the faults of the gentlemen present in the crush, it did not go unnoticed by her that Lord Babington had avoided her ire.

“Thank you for bringing back my dear friend Miss Lambe, my lord,” said Charlotte, rising from her seat and dipping into a hasty curtsy. “Just in time, I’d say, as my other _dear friend_ , Miss Denham, was just telling me how fond she is of-- waltzing.”

As if Charlotte had conspired with the conductor, the orchestra moved into a waltz. 

Lord Babington, despite the breach of proprietary and protocol, answered Charlotte with a smile. “What a happy coincidence, ma’am,” he said. “I would be delighted to escort Miss Denham during this next set, as long as it is not promised to another.”

Miss Denham’s eyes widened a fraction before settling coolly. Escape was futile. She rose gracefully to her feet as if a string had been pulled from the top of her head. Her gloved hand slid into his waiting one, and she was whisked away by the gentleman, but not before shooting a scaldingly betrayed glance back into the gallery.

Georgiana’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. “Are you secretly Lord Babington’s minder? A plant by his aunt to ensure he is married by Season’s end?”

“No,” she said, and watched with curiosity and wonder as Miss Denham and Lord Babington swept around the dance floor. Her instincts had been correct. There was no denying the shine in Miss Denham’s eyes, nor the soft way Lord Babingon looked at her. “But perhaps I should approach this aunt of his. I’m beginning to think I may have a future in matchmaking.”

Though Charlotte did not dance a single round all night, her newly established friendships with Georgiana and Miss Denham -- who, after some trite remarks, forgave Charlotte for tossing her in the mix -- more than made up for that disappointment. 

By the end of the evening, all three of them sat together, wilting like flowers left a little too long in the sun.

Georgiana was the first to perk up. Her trademark flash of annoyance twisted her mouth. “Ladies, guard yourselves. My warden is come to take me away.”

Charlotte scanned the crowd and saw a man indeed come in the line of their trajectory. 

He cut a fine figure in the standard black-and-white attire of the evening; dark brown hair, straight nose, and a sharp jaw rounded him out quite nicely. It did not pass notice that the young ladies twittered at his approach. He was another who had escaped Miss Denham’s list of fools, but something told Charlotte that this was due more to his absence than his innocence.

He came to stand before them, hands clasped behind his back. He sketched a bow. “Miss Lambe.”

“Good evening, Mr. Parker,” she replied. Ice dripped from every syllable. “These are my friends-- Miss Denham and Miss Heywood.”

He inclined his head to them both, but his gaze remained firmly on Georgiana. He seemed an overbearing type and lacking in humor. “Mrs. Griffiths and the Misses Beauforts are waiting for the carriage to leave.”

“And what does that mean to me?”

Miss Denham and Charlotte exchanged looks. They couldn’t escape their seats, just as they both knew the altercation between Mr. Parker and Georgiana was not to be witnessed either.

“Miss Lambe,” said Charlotte, a sudden and terrible wildness taking hold of her senses. Much in the same way it had in the moment with Lady Pandora. She touched her hand to Georgiana’s forearm. “It was such a lovely night, and I am so pleased I was able to make your acquaintance. Perhaps we can make plans to go on a walk tomorrow, if… if Mrs. Griffiths consents, of course.”

Interjecting as she had was beyond the pale of rude, and Georgiana seemed to understand the position Charlotte had put herself in. She stood, and the other two ladies rose as well.

“I look forward to tomorrow’s adventure, then. Miss Heywood, Miss Denham.” She did not wait for Mr. Parker’s arm, nor did she spare him a passing glance. Instead, she took a direct line to the exit, weaving through the throng of surprised partygoers.

Mr. Parker’s previous neutral expression had turned dark and stormy.

“Miss Heywood, was it? How presumptuous of you to intervene on Miss Lambe’s behalf,” he said, voice low and trembling. “Though she may have found your friendship pleasing, I must say you’ve proven your character to be an ill-fit for her. I bid you: do not seek any further social calls. If you persist, I will most vocally deny your requests.”

There was a controlled viciousness in his speech that nearly unraveled her; and if not for prying eyes, she would have let the tears come free. But she would not let Mr. Parker, nor anyone else, have the satisfaction of seeing her break apart. She had done the right thing in standing up for Georgiana, and his reaction to it solidified her vindication all the more.

He dismissed her with a turn of his heel and quickly disappeared into the crush. Charlotte took a shuddering breath. An arm came around her shoulders in a surprising move of comfort from Miss Denham, who looked both sympathetic and curious.

“I must know what is in the water in Willingden,” she murmured, “to make young ladies so foolish and so brave.”


	2. A Favor

Even as late as it was, the crush still heaved with bodies. Determined anger kept Georgiana moving, but it was slow going, and she hoped to heaven that Sidney was not watching her struggle like a fish against the currents.

Indeed, it was a bit like being in the ocean; being tossed this way and that by the nudge of an elbow, or having to dodge an errant stomp of a heel. She smelled alcohol and cloying perfume, powder and hints of sweat. A pair cut suddenly in front of her, unknowingly impeding her way, and she took a desperate turn--

And stumbled into someone else. She drew back, cheeks burning, to see Lord Peregrin send a stunned expression down her way. She knew it was him, of course, because they had already danced once during the night. He was terribly handsome, and he well knew it.

“Miss Lambe,” he said. “Are you back for round two?”

Her palm itched to slap the amused smirk off his face. “You couldn’t tempt me even if you tried,” she sniffed. Then, for good measure, she leaned in deliberately. “Oh, my lord, I’m so sorry to say, but… it looks like you have something on your face-- no, not there-- _there_ \-- ah, yes, you got it. Oh dear, I hope it wasn’t there long.”

Terrible deed done, she left him where he stood.

Georgiana all but threw herself into the carriage behind Mrs. Griffiths and the Beaufort sisters once she breached open air. 

It was a terrible display of impropriety, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She flounced her skirts for good measure and glared out the window to hammer it home, spitefully ignoring Mrs. Griffith’s indignant stammers all the while.

For the first time in what felt like a very, very long time, she’d been having _fun._ And then her guardian-cum-jailer had thrown mud on it, just like he always did any time he saw her enjoying even a morsel. He was always raving on and on about wanting the best for her and honoring her father’s dying wish, but he seemed to be under the misconception that what was best for her was to not live at all.

Mr. Parker was determined to mold her into someone she did not desire to be. Someone she could _not_ be. She was no delicate lady; fine-boned and quiet and tepidly demure. She had fire in her spirit. Her mother had always said so. But austere cold battered her from all sides on this lonely island, and she was afraid it would consume her whole.

Try as she might, but spending all her days reading hum-drum books, embroidering, and slogging through fifteen minutes of social calls was _not_ how she’d envisioned her life in London. The best part, she could selfishly admit, was the education: Greek, Latin, French. Philosophy and maths. She soaked it up like a sponge. Not once did she quarrel with her tutors. Women were just as capable and smart as any man was, and she loathed the well-ingrained idea that they were not. But it lent to the question: what use was learning all she could, if she’d never be allowed to use any of it? 

Young though she may be, she was not wholly naive. These balls and soirees had a singular purpose, and aligned very much with Sidney’s thoughts on what would and should come next for her: a respectable marriage.

Georgiana’s heart squeezed. It would have been a lie to say she did not desire love or partnership, but the thought that she may find it among the _ton_ was laughable. She was an heiress and held a fortune. Any titled gentleman with a leaky roof to patch surely saw her as a prized pony to woo any time she was trotted out. The state of her dance card said enough. But Sidney wouldn’t understand. He had a heart of ice and had little regard for anyone else’s. Whoever he deigned to make his wife was in for a world of misery. She was sure of it.

She then thought of Charlotte Heywood and Esther Denham. They were both very different in comportment and temperament. Esther’s wit was drier than a desert; Charlotte was sweet and righteously earnest. Even so, the three of them had plunged into the night and emerged new friends. A surprising turn of events from Lady Pandora’s horrible, chirping nonsense at the start.

An uneasy weight of guilt dropped onto her shoulders as she remembered how Charlotte had come to her valiant defense not once but twice. She was sure the poor girl hadn’t been spared Sidney’s mercurial temper after she’d stormed off. Her imagination conjured up a version of the conversation that had followed, and a voice eerily similar to Sidney growled out several vile and mean things.

Shuddering, she vowed to repair the situation, and quickly.

It was the least she could do for a friend.

The coach lurched almost violently as it departed, shaking her back into reality. The Beaufort sisters leaned up against one another, dozing on the bench opposite her own. Even buttoned-up Mrs. Griffiths was nodding off, her sharp chin dropping to her collarbone then bouncing back up like a shot. This was her life now, with no end in sight.

Georgiana settled back against the plush seating with a sigh. There was naught to be done tonight, but at first light, she’d spin her plan into motion. 

-

Chin held high and back straight, Miss Denham looped her arm through Charlotte’s and walked free from the ballroom. 

Charlotte followed in step, though the air of _haughtier_ was noticeably absent from her comportment. She had, after all, been thoroughly rebuked by a gentleman. She kept her gaze straight, her expression serene. If vindictive words were said of her, the ringing in her ears drowned them out.

“Let me introduce you to my aunt,” Miss Denham declared as they left, but she deftly turned them through a side door and down a long hallway instead. 

Revelers mingled in easy conversation, but none were of their mutual acquaintance, and so the young ladies escaped outside unhindered.

They found solitude on the terrace. A chill in the air had kept most inside all night, despite lit torches that had been stood up to tempt partygoers otherwise, and it was similarly devoid of people now. 

Gooseflesh prickled on Charlotte’s exposed skin as they came to lean against the marble balustrade. The lawn beyond was very dark, and the muffled sound of voices and music made it seem like both she and Miss Denham were world’s away. Despair quickly set in. “What have I done?”

“Come now, Miss Heywood. What’s done is done, and tears in this situation won’t help you,” Miss Denham replied. Her tone was sympathetic, even if the words themselves were harsh. Her gloved hand remained firmly on Charlotte’s forearm. “All will be well.”

Tears burned her nose. “Of that I am not so sure. Everyone saw what happened.”

“On the contrary. It’s near midnight. Anyone worth anything is already soused. And while I grant you that eligible bachelors such as Mr. Parker often do not go unnoticed on our side of the room, the quarrel was quiet and barely done.”

“He may speak of it. I insulted him. Very publicly.”

Miss Denham sighed. “If you insist on taking a forward approach, there is a way to persuade him to keep his thoughts to himself.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“There are three Parker brothers. Tom, Sidney, and Arthur. You had the pleasure of meeting the middle brother. The eldest is attempting to build something of a seaside retreat called Sanditon. Fashions it to be the very next Brighton. This Mr. Parker has been all over London, blathering on about the ‘healing properties’ of sea-bathing and its ‘fresh air’... he is quite in raptures with the place, and I’ve seen him nearly _beg_ the other Mr. Parker to spread its news in similar ways. If I heard tomorrow that he burst his way into the House of Lords during an open session to speak of the place, I wouldn’t bat an eyelash.” Miss Denham’s summary was clipped and precise, and carried with it an undercurrent of derision. “With your connection to Lady Susan… You may be able to convince Mr. Parker that you hold some sway as to where she may spend a fortnight during the summer recess. Where she goes, the beau monde inevitably follows.”

“But I assuredly do not have her ear in such a way.”

“He does not need to know that. You have been sponsored by her as no one else outside of a niece or two has.” Her expression was serenely serious. “You need only imply, _gently_ , and set the cards down.”

“That’s akin to blackmail!”

“Hardly, Miss Heywood. It is practicality.”

Charlotte swallowed thickly around the sickly feeling crawling up her throat. In truth, Miss Denham was not entirely _incorrect._ Lady Susan had quickly become a dear friend, and she believed the sentiment wholly returned. _If_ Charlotte decided to mention Sanditon and all its purported glory, she believed Lady Susan could indeed be persuaded to visit. But she couldn’t imagine abusing their friendship in such a way. If Mr. Parker decided to approach Charlotte’s chaperone to pass her indiscretion on, then it was her place to take whatever admonishment came her way.

Wasn’t it?

“How have you come to know so much of the Mr. Parkers?” Charlotte asked, turning to a safe subject for the moment.

“My aunt’s seat of evil power resides in Sanditon proper,” she replied. “My… step-brother and I are similarly lodged there during the summers. The Parkers are well known to us.”

“Then it would be foolish to discount your advice indeed.” She took a steadying breath. “And I do appreciate the advice, I truly do; you have been very kind to me. But I can’t do it.”

“Then you give _me_ no choice,” Miss Denham replied. “Lord Babington has Mr. Parker’s ear, and through him I will ask him to stay whatever punishment he had planned.”

Charlotte eyes widened. “Miss Denham, you cannot!”

“I can, and I shall. My actions may encourage Lord Babington further, but it is a small price to pay. You were merely defending Miss Lambe against him, just as you had with Lady Pandora. Improper, to be sure, but well-intentioned, and I shall say as much to him.”

For a moment, Charlotte was speechless. More tears threatened to burn her nose.

“You both have given me more amusement in one night than all of last year’s Season,” Miss Denham explained matter-of-factly, as if sensing an overwhelming feeling of sentimentality and friendship would soon ruin her night. “It would be a shame to see you leave us so soon.”

Before Charlotte could protest, Miss Denham extracted her arm and made off with neat, if determined, steps to the ballroom. Glimpses of her red hair threading through the crush could be seen if she looked, but if Charlotte wanted to see a clear view of Miss Denham’s discussion with Lord Babington, she was not in a favorable spot for it.

As much as Charlotte _knew_ it was wrong to let Miss Denham ask for a favor in her stead, there was something in the way her friend spoke of the gentleman; a touch of frustrated fondness that spoke of flames which could be fanned in the favor of the young couple. Charlotte had seen a similar courting between her eldest brother George and his wife. Yes, she should have halted Miss Denham, or tried to work the situation herself, but she suspected Miss Denham looked forward to the interaction -- at least a little bit, and maybe even despite herself.

In a sense, she was also relieved. Remembering Mr. Parker’s thunderous expression, she shivered and crossed her arms across her stomach. Now removed from the situation, any righteousness she’d had on her friend’s behalf seemed foolish and naive. Charlotte did not know Georgiana well enough to make a stand against her guardian as she did… but it was very hard to feel sorry for doing so, even as she acknowledged the man would deserve an apology if they ever again crossed paths.

With Miss Denham on the case, Charlotte hoped that fate would not soon come to pass.

-

In all his years, Sidney had never met such an imperious young woman.

 _Miss Heywood_ , his mind supplied the name, and his blood boiled again. 

She had some nerve, he’d admit; and a fair heaping of gall on top of that. To come between him and his ward on a _private matter_ and in such a public setting -- it was borderline unthinkable. But it had happened all the same. She’d sat there in her plain dress, looking up at him in defiance as if _he’d_ been in the wrong. She’d meant to reproach him. Before he knew it, he’d taken her measure and unleashed a rapid-fire assessment. The glassy look in her eyes and dimpled, wobbling chin had only made him angrier. She had caused the offense, and her tears would not sway him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to ache.

Babington found him on the driveway awaiting his carriage. 

“Parker,” he greeted. “Is Miss Lambe returned home?”

He arched a questioning eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re--”

“No, no, none of that,” he said. “Did you happen to speak to her chaperone--?”

“Mrs. Griffiths was swaying on her feet by eleven o’clock. She wouldn’t have heard a word I said, even if I’d tried.” Sidney remained bemused. “Where are you taking me with this line of questioning?”

Babington’s smile came then; perhaps a little too quickly for a man of his station. “Miss Denham has asked a favor of me and my honor obliged me to accept.”

A feeling of knowing dread rose in Sidney. Miss Denham had sat with Georgiana and this Miss Heywood, and he had a sound suspicion this favor would not please him in the slightest. His family was well acquainted with Lady Denham, and he’d interacted with Miss Denham on occasion. He found her cold, though frighteningly calculating. “I’m intrigued, despite myself. Tell me if I need to sit down,” he said, “or perhaps pour myself a glass of brandy before I hear it.”

“All on the up-and-up, I assure you,” Babington replied. “But I’d prefer to discuss the matter privately.”

Sidney nodded, but his carriage was already rolling up the drive. “If you weren’t planning on staying with your aunt tonight, Bedford Place has room enough for one more. You can ride with me.”

Babington agreed and left to give his parting remarks to host and hostess. He returned quickly enough that it could have been reasonable to surmise he did not, perhaps, say goodbye to all he should, but as the heir apparent to one of the oldest duchy’s in all the kingdom, Babington could do as he pleased -- though he rarely, if ever, flexed in such a manner.

They stepped into the carriage. Sidney sorely wished he had his tobacco pipe or a drink in hand as they settled on opposite benches.

With a click of the driver’s tongue, they were off.

“Miss Denham spoke of an altercation between you and her friend-- a Miss Heywood,” said Babington, cutting straight to the quick.

Barely biting back a groan, Sidney quickly explained what had transpired. 

“I see,” said Babington, after a moment.

“What manner of favor could Miss Denham request in this case?” he prompted. It was clear-cut in his eyes.

“To reconsider your feelings in regards to Miss Heywood. Allow the friendship between your ward and the young lady,” he said. Seeing the displeased twist of Sidney’s mouth, he continued on: “I am assured Miss Heywood is well aware of her misstep, and I was bid to emphasize her actions as truly well-intentioned.”

“Well, you and I both know where a well-intentioned road leads…”

“To very fiery second chances?”

“You are too good-natured, Babs.” He emphasized the sentiment with a sound thump of his walking cane to the floor. “Miss Denham is aware of your little _tendre_ and uses it to her advantage.”

“She is hardly manipulating me into anything I wouldn’t already do,” he said. “I’ll have you know Miss Heywood convinced Miss Lambe to take her set with me, and even shepherded Miss Denham into my arms afterward during a waltz. If anything, _I_ owe _her_ this favor.”

Sidney tilted his head, considering. “To what end do her actions lead, I wonder.”

“Why must everything be a chess match with you, Parker? Can’t a person do a good deed for the sake of goodness itself?”

“In theory, but you can’t expect me to assess Miss Heywood’s innate goodness.”

“Which is why I advise the course of optimism. One brief… encounter… is hardly anything at all. How many friends would you have if you dismissed each and every one after a single conversation?”

It was hardly a meaningless encounter or tepid conversation. “You’re attempting to rewrite history.”

“Damn it, man, of course I am!” Babington cried. “If the Socratic approach won’t work on you, then all I have left is to reference our friendship, and hope it is strong enough that that may sway your opinion. What say you, Parker? For old time’s sake.”

Sidney sighed, and ceded with a wave of his hand. “I hope you’ll make Miss Denham very happy.” 

The implication at both in matrimony and in the matter of Miss Heywood did not go unnoticed if Babington’s laugh said anything.

The ride to Bedford Place passed otherwise in silence. Well enough, Sidney thought, as he’d been cajoled into giving ground he did not wish to give. It made him irritable.

His nature -- protective, and a little explosive -- had gotten the better of him tonight. 

Georgiana was a willful young lady, and he worried greatly about her future. But conveying his worry did not come as easily as he wished. The fact of the matter was that he, too, was a young man; even if he often felt decades older than his twenty-and-eight years, he wouldn’t delude himself into believing he understood young ladies.

Why Lambe had thought Sidney was the man to bring his daughter to London, he hadn’t a clue. But duty dictated he did, and he wouldn’t let his late friend’s memory be besmirched by a lack of care. Georgiana would have the best in all things, if he had any say. Including friends. And Sidney, by law, had all the say in the world.

 _Miss Heywood_ , he thought again. He would have to pay close attention to her; and, for her sake, he hoped her nature was indeed as good as everyone claimed it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FWIW, I'm pretty positive this story will end up over 10 chapters long as I haven't even dented my outline. :\


	3. Letters and Cards

By the time Georgiana made her way down the stairs the next morning, a sizeable gathering of flowers had accumulated in the foyer of Mrs. Griffith’s boarding house. They ranged in color and type, and one or two could only have been recently cut from a well-kept greenhouse. She leaned down to pluck the card from the most beautiful arrangement -- purple wildflower in a ceramic vase -- but Mrs. Griffith’s snatched it away before she could discern its sender or to whom it had been sent.

“On to breakfast now, dear,” Mrs. Griffiths said, but her gaze flicked down to the card she now held, and she gave a little gasp. “My goodness.”

The card trembled between Mrs. Griffith’s bony fingers. It was made from an off-white cream paper, its border embossed with shiny gold inlay. Even with quick examination, it was clearly an expensive card to make and to keep.

Georgiana wanted to stamp her foot in indignation. Curiosity gripped her. The flowers were either for her or the Beaufort sisters, and so she saw little value in withholding information. Food, in her opinion, could wait.

“And who is the sender?” she asked. “I will go straight-away to breakfast and behave all day if you tell me.”

Mrs. Griffiths pursed her lips, undoubtedly hearing the lie for what it was, but the card must have shaken her constitution very much. “It is from Lord Peregrin,” she replied, “with a peculiar message.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she gave it to Georgiana.

“Oh?” She flipped the card over absent-mindedly. As eager as she was to know its contents, she did not want to seem overly so. “I don’t remember either of the Beaufort sisters dancing with him.”

“They didn’t.” Mrs. Griffith’s words were flat.

Her eyebrows furrowed at the implication. That Lord Peregrin had sent _her_ flowers. Perhaps it was a mistake. Mrs. Griffith’s had said the message was strange, and they resided on a block specifically reserved for young unmarried ladies. The error seemed impossible for a man of his station.

Again, she flipped the card over. Her thumb swiped over the hand-written note and the pre-printed name as she read:

> _LORD PEREGRIN_
> 
> _To Miss Lambe,_
> 
> _I humbly accept your challenge._

“What does he reference, Georgiana?”

“I couldn’t possibly know,” she replied, but that was another lie. 

Shock was the word for what she felt. After making haste to leave the ball the night previous, they had bumped into one another. Rather, _she_ had bumped into him. She hadn’t responded to his goading remark of a second dance very eloquently. Surely he meant to mock her. There was no doubt the entire block overflowed with similar sentiments of his. Beautiful flowers or no, she would not allow herself to overthink.

“Lord Peregrin is known for his oh-so humorous jests, is he not?” To Mrs. Griffith’s horror, she folded the card in half and tucked it back into the bouquet. She looped her arm together with her chaperone’s and chaperoned the woman along, and continued on breezily: “Now, on to breakfast, just as you said, Mrs. Griffiths! And actually, ma’am, since I have your ear… I was hoping we all might partake in a walk in Hyde Park this afternoon with my dear friends… a Miss Heywood and Miss Denham? Mr. Parker had the pleasure of making their acquaintance last night and I’m sure--”

-

Charlotte woke so early the next morning she preceded her housemaid. The fireplace remained unlit; the curtains drawn closed. She remained dutifully under warm covers, though she wished nothing more than to leap from her bed and rush to tell Lady Susan every single horrible thing that had transpired the night previous.

Though Miss Denham had assured her all was well in hand, she could not quell the notion that the trouble had only just begun.

The morning dragged by slowly, and so distant was she that her lady’s maid asked her thrice if she was feeling well enough to go about the day. She hadn’t the heart to tell her that she may as well start packing Charlotte’s belongings back into her chest of drawers. That it was only a matter of time before the mercurial Mr. Parker stormed their doors and demanded she be cast out for her crimes against polite society.

But no such threat arrived, and breakfast came in due course.

Lady Susan was already seated when Charlotte arrived. 

The breakfast parlor was simply set. A pang of longing shot through Charlotte at the sight. Mornings at the Heywood estate were lively. Half the meal could pass by corralling the children to the table.

“Lady Susan, good morning,” greeted Charlotte, though she felt very little of the morning could be called such. She dropped into a curtsy.

“None of that now, my dear,” said Lady Susan kindly. Though they had both stayed up late, the mistress of Worcester Hall looked immaculately put-together. A stack of newspapers were folded to her right. To her left, a place-setting had already been made. “Come and join me. I _must_ hear all of the fun you had last night.”

A servant appeared at her elbow to push her chair in behind her, and was off before she could thank him -- though she knew the sentiment was not needed, nor appreciated.

“It was… interesting,” she said. “I made two new friends. A Miss Esther Denham and Miss Georgiana Lambe.”

“Lovely. Lady Denham’s niece is very elegant… though I must say her nephew is a bit high in the instep.” Lady Susan hummed. “I can’t say I am familiar with this Miss Lambe.”

“She is an heiress from Antigua, ma’am.”

“Oh. Interesting indeed! How did you come to meet?”

Charlotte’s hands tightened in her lap. Once, as a little girl, she had forgotten to close the enclosure surrounding the Heywood barn; worse yet, she’d lied about doing so when asked. Three goats had escaped, and their herd of heifers had trundled off grassy lawn and dale to better prospects. Charlotte remembered the agony of keeping the secret inside herself; caught between wanting to be honest and avoiding her father’s surefire disappointment.

In the end, the truth came out as it always did with her: rapidly, and with little detail spared for her own sake. Charlotte had had to chase down and retrieve every last goat and cow.

A similar pressure was welling inside her now.

It began to bubble over, and before she knew it, she was telling Lady Susan everything from beginning to end. Lady Pandora; her multiple and varied breaks with proprietary; Sanditon; Miss Denham’s scheme; and then finally, the nail in the coffin, her brush with Mr. Sidney Parker.

“It was _dreadful_ , Lady Susan,” she said, “and I am so very sorry if I have caused you any embarrassment as your guest. I, of course, will beg his pardon--”

Lady Susan placed her hand atop Charlotte’s, but where she thought to find horror or anger or even pity, found only sparkling, laughing eyes. 

“There is nothing to fear, I assure you. You are under my protection. This Mr. Parker will have to accuse you of much more than a mild misstep in protecting your friend to offend me,” she said. “And Lady Pandora earned her cut, if I may say so… I promise, your tête-à-tête may seem like a great battle now, but tomorrow someone will spill a glass of punch on someone else’s waistcoat, and all will be forgotten.”

“Is it really so easy?”

“Why of course. It’s just a small tilt of the wrist.”

Charlotte laughed. Being so soundly reassured brought her appetite roaring, and they ate in companionable silence interspersed with discussion on the latest in the papers.

It seemed so very strange how quickly her circumstances had been altered. She was eating breakfast in a designated breakfast parlor with a countess when not even a month ago she’d had to fight for a buttered roll.

In Willingden, Charlotte had dreamed of the outside world. Books from her father’s study had given her glimpses through the years. For though Mr. Heywood gladly kept to his five-mile parish, he did travel into town to settle his affairs on occasion and often brought back with him novels and prints. But books never did tell the full story.

Lady Susan read three separate papers every morning, and she seemed to know everything about everyone. If she wore a certain color, then it rippled among the crowd like a pebble in a pond. If she laughed, everyone laughed.

London was different. Its _people_ were different. There was a deliberate artifice around everything; what was said, what wasn’t said. What was done, or not done. It all tied together with a vibrating desire to always be on the proper cusp of the best, the new, the brightest.

Why Lady Susan had plucked Charlotte from the bunch, she didn’t fully understand. But there was something in her which Charlotte was beginning to see reflected in herself as the days ticked by. To be surrounded by a sea of admiring people easily turned by scandal would set even the strongest among them adrift. Lady Susan had been weathering the storm for many years.

At the end of the hour, it was announced that a letter had come for Charlotte along with miscellaneous post for the mistress of the house. They retired to a separate drawing room to read.

The handwriting on the letter was foreign, but its contents quickly revealed its sender to be Miss Georgiana Lambe. She formally requested Charlotte’s presence for a walk in Hyde Park, and to please respond at her earliest convenience.

“May I go?” asked Charlotte.

“Of course, though I myself have a previous engagement,” said Lady Susan. “But you say Miss Lambe has a chaperone by the name of Mrs. Griffiths?”

“Yes, Miss Lambe is in her charge along with two other young ladies. The Beaufort sisters.”

“Then the matter is settled. You will have a carriage, and a servant to escort you."

And so she did. She changed into her best walking dress and was quickly ferried off into the streets of London with a member of Lady Susan’s household staff. The ride to Grosvenor-gate was slow-going, and they arrived a few minutes past the agreed time to find Miss Lambe and her entourage waiting; some patiently, others not so.

A group of gentlemen on horseback trotted by. From Charlotte’s vantage point, it seemed as if the Beaufort sisters would have followed gladly behind if they weren’t waylaid by their stern chaperone.

“Miss Lambe!” Charlotte called out, waving. 

Upon seeing her, Georgiana waved heartily back. Mrs. Griffiths could be heard remarking on the overzealous and improper behavior of the two young ladies, but they paid her no mind, and came to link arms with wide grins upon meeting.

“Miss Denham agreed to lend her company as well,” said Georgiana. Then, low enough so only Charlotte could hear, “I thought it best that we are evenly matched against Mrs. Griffith’s tyranny.”

Charlotte stifled a laugh. “She can’t be so bad. You are here, are you not?"

“Indeed, though you would never believe the falsehood I had to spin up to ensure it came to pass.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told her Mr. Parker absolutely _loved_ you and insisted upon our continued friendship.”

“Georgiana, you _didn’t_ \--”

“I am not sorry for the lie, but I _am_ sorry that I put you in his way. I wanted to goad him, and did not think he might turn his bite on you. Forgive me, Charlotte.”

“There is nothing to forgive. His callousness is not your doing. Though you must know I will owe him an apology as I acted quite out of turn.”

“In that case, there is another matter I must address,” said Georgiana, after a moment. “After I wrote to both you and Miss Denham, Mrs. Griffiths insisted I send one off to Mr. Parker as well… as a show of good faith.”

Charlotte paled. “Oh?”

“There is not a single chance he will arrive, I promise you that,” she replied. “Though he seems to control my every move with gleeful domination, he rarely seeks the pleasure of my company.”

Before Charlotte could worry further, Miss Denham arrived at the head of the path. 

She wore a very elegant walking dress and was escorted by a gentleman who she introduced as her step-brother, Sir Edward. The odd round-robin of formal acquaintanceship proceeded as such: Miss Denham first introduced Mrs. Griffiths, who then introduced the young ladies to the gentleman as if they hadn’t been standing there the entire time.

Upon first glance, Charlotte understood what Lady Susan meant about Sir Edward. He seemed to carry himself without an ounce of humility. An air of arrogance clung to him like a strong, undesirable perfume, though its ill effects seemed to only hinder her.

Almost immediately after formal acquaintances were made, he detached himself from Miss Denham’s side and began to lavish attention on the Beaufort sisters, as well as Mrs. Griffiths. 

The ensuing twittering quickly became tiresome.

“Shall we?” said Esther. She cut a reproachful look to her step-brother.

The three ladies took the front, while Sir Edward and his admirers took the secondary row.

The Park was quite beautiful, and the fresh air reminded Charlotte of home.

“Well,” said Esther. “How did you lot fare this morning?”

“Miss Lambe had over a dozen vases on the stoop,” one of the Beaufort sisters interjected, then quickly dissolved into giggles.

“As she should,” said Sir Edward. “Our Miss Denham has several admirers as well. She is far too shy to boast on such things, of course.”

“A few lawn clippings,” Esther drawled. “Nothing to catch the eye.”

Sir Edward cleared his throat. “And what about you, Miss Heywood? Surely you couldn’t make it out your door.”

She blushed. In fact, she had only received one set of flowers. Whoever had sent it had left no note or card, and she strongly suspected Lady Susan had arranged it so as not to let her be embarrassed after such a poor showing. As she hadn’t danced with a single gentleman the night previous, the deception was all too obvious. “I’m afraid your assessment is very far off the mark, sir,” she replied. “I am not yet so well-regarded.”

“But why?” It was one of the sisters.

“You are from a small village, are you not?” asked Mrs. Griffiths, though she did not wait for Charlotte’s answer before barreling on: “I find there is a lack of refinement to be found when one is so far away from London, and surely Miss Heywood has not yet captivated those so inclined. We are in _very_ polite society, after all.”

The sisters whispered among themselves, and Sir Edward cleared his throat again.

Charlotte’s cheeks burned. The urge to stand up for herself rolled to the tip of her tongue, but Georgiana beat her to the punch.

“I must say I disagree most strongly, Mrs. Griffiths. Miss Heywood has twice the character of anyone I’ve met thus far,” Georgiana ground out. “It is not her lack of refinement that is the cause of her misfortune, but the idiocy of everyone else!”

Mrs. Griffith gasped.

By fortuitous intervention, they came then to a crossroads. The three ladies in front strode quickly across, and the way was soon impeded by a stampede of phaetons and other such conveyances. It held Mrs. Griffith and her admonishments at bay, and Sir Edward seemed perfectly happy to stay under the attentions of the Beauforts.

Despite their need for a chaperone, the three young ladies proceeded onward.

“Let us enjoy the view and the fresh air,” said Georgiana, “as I fear once the tale of my language is sent on to my warden, I will quickly be thrown in my room and shackled by the ankle.”

“I wish you hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Griffiths like that,” said Charlotte. She looked over her shoulder to the dusty overstuffed road. They were quickly coming to a more populated promenade opposite the Serpentine River. “We should wait for them. Besides… she is _not_ wrong. My dance card didn’t have even one name to scratch out.”

Esther clicked her tongue. “The woman could have had a care with her choice of words, but indeed there is merit among them."

Georgiana scoffed.

“I have my family’s title, and you, Miss Lambe, have your fortune.”

“And you suggest Charlotte holds little appeal in any other regard?”

“Oh, don’t be so combative. Men are pigs who aren’t able to see beyond their--”

“Ladies, please,” Charlotte interjected. “Georgiana, I most thoroughly regard your defense of my person as the highest form of kindness; and Miss Denham, I absolutely understand your meaning and take no offense. I am the daughter of a farmer, and I am not ashamed to say so.”

“But that is so-- _wrong_.” Georgiana turned to Esther. “Charlotte as Charlotte herself _should_ be the entire appeal, don’t you think? She is accomplished, beautiful, educated--”

“You know that isn’t the way of the beau monde.” Esther’s tone was sharp. “Not all of us can marry for love. An advantageous marriage rarely rests on such silly feelings. Any man will see your coin purse before all else. Any man sees my name. That is all there is.”

Georgiana remained silent.

“Please, let us not quarrel. It’s such a fine day, is it not?” Charlotte rallied. She gave them both cheerful smiles in an attempt to smooth over ruffled feathers. “Soon the pair of you will be eating off gold breakfast trays as great ladies of great houses, and won’t have a single moment to spare for me.”

Georgiana and Esther exchanged an indecipherable look.

“Gold trays? How _gauche_ ,” said Esther.

“Yes, how could you imply such a thing, Miss Heywood?” Georgiana pressed a hand to her chest with a mocking sigh. “Indeed Lord Babington would _never_ have such utensils in his mansion.”

-

The curtains were tossed open and bright morning light stabbed through Sidney’s eyelids.

“Parker!” It was Babington.

He was already shaved and dressed. Where and how a valet had entered Bedford Place, Sidney hadn’t a clue. His own man, being in possession of good sense, was not yet due to arrive for several hours.

Any indignation at being interrupted in his own chambers melted away, however, as he sat up and found himself not in his own bed but in his offices. He tilted his neck for a crack, and groaned as his tender muscles righted themselves after being so horrendously twisted on the small sitting couch.

“You are far too cheerful for my tastes,” he said. His temples pounded. The ticking of the German cuckoo clock affixed to the wall kept time with his pulse.

“My man is here to take my arrangement requests,” said Babington, thoroughly ignoring Sidney’s not-so-subtle dismissal. “Give me the names of your conquests and we may be on with our day.”

He scrubbed a hand across his face. He’d spent most of the night embroiled in business discussions. Avoiding young ladies and their trappings was his general practice. He did not have time or the inclination for marriage. If he needed a distraction, he found it elsewhere. “Send him away with nothing from me.”

“Not even one?” Babington thought for a moment, then said, “How about Miss Heywood?”

“ _Who?”_

“How much did you have to drink after I left? _Miss Heywood._ The young lady with whom you quarreled.”

The memory swam back up to the present; _ah, yes._ The plain girl in the plain dress who’d stood up to him. “Why would I even consider--”

“I discovered more about her,” said Babington. “She is dear friends with Lady Susan. In fact, she is _sponsored_ by Lady Susan. She’s holed up in Worcester Hall as we speak, undoubtedly eating bonbons and regaling the countess of your scathing retorts.”

It was far too early to contend with both Babington's energetic disposition and a plot that could ruin his life. Though Sidney wished the name wasn’t enough to change his perspective, it did. Lady Susan was one of the most powerful women in the _ton,_ and her influence was as far-reaching as one could be. She headed fashion, art, and any other number of things important to those in Society; what she said was _au courant... was._ And, he was sure, she held similar sway to the opposite. “This is extortion,” he growled.

Babington looked far too innocent. “They’re only flowers.”

“Fine. Send her a love declaration for all I care.”

A rumbling groan came from behind the settee, and both Babington and he jumped to their feet. 

Before either gentleman could reach broadside or pistol, a mop of familiar hair popped up. Bony fingers clutched at the back of the settee and the man hauled himself up.

“Crowe!” Babington cried, tone jovially surprised.

Sidney was less inclined to happiness. Where Crowe went, the fine brandy and expensive liqueurs disappeared. His cabinets were surely ravaged by now. “Where the hell did you come from?"

“Hell itself, surely; my head is splitting. Like the Devil himself is hammering a pick right--” He tapped his temple. “Damn. Don’t you have a bottle at the ready in this room?”

Babington laughed. “A little hair of the dog, eh?”

Sidney envied the man. Babington could keep up with the best of men, and he never seemed to suffer for it the next day. Crowe, too, would soon recover.

“I’ll leave you both to it,” he said, and retired from his own offices to freshen up.

Bedford Place had remnants of the Parker family strewn about, but he was its only permanent resident. Arthur and Diana were still abroad on the Continent. Tom came and went as he pleased; Mary and the children sometimes came along for the ride, but they seemed perfectly happy to stay in Sanditon during London’s active social season. As much as he enjoyed the diversions and entertainment within the city, he couldn’t blame them at all.

He drew the bath himself and washed quickly. He forewent a shave, and dressed. His mind whirred from topic to topic: his varied investments, the connections he still had to cultivate, the men of import he would soon need to call on. He was a wealthy man and growing wealthier by the minute, and he needed to spin the globe faster and faster. He did not intend on losing momentum.

Babington’s reveal of Miss Heywood’s sponsor was a worry, though he wouldn’t yet be sure of how much until it was, perhaps, too late. Lady Susan had the power to sever ties if she so wished, but damn him if he would ever go crawling to Miss Heywood for a groveling apology when he was in his rights.

A time later, he descended the steps and found a handful of letters waiting for him. He sorted them quickly, and one gave him so much pause he tore it open right there in the receiving hall.

> _To Mr. Parker,_
> 
> _I apologize for my behavior last night and humbly request your pleasant company for a walk at the Park this afternoon, if you so wish. We will meet at Grosvenor-gate at 4 o’clock._
> 
> _G. L._

He could almost feel the spite infused within the ink. He imagined Mrs. Griffith’s standing over Georgiana at her writing desk, then carefully inspecting her work for malice or foul language before posting it. Her lack of desire for him to come could not have been more apparent.

He read the letter again. _We_ , he thought. _We will meet..._

Sidney tapped the edge of the paper against his chin. He hadn’t yet told Mrs. Griffith’s to stop any friendship with Miss Heywood. In fact, Miss Heywood had been the one to suggest a walk this very day. Despite himself, he felt the tug of a smile. It was not kind.

He found Crowe and Babington where he’d left them; Crowe, reposed on the settee with an arm thrown dramatically over his eyes; Babington, dutifully penning letters. They stirred at his sudden appearance.

“Let’s go for a walk, gents.”

He’d once been told his spontaneity was his greatest flaw. It was how he’d found himself on a ship sailing off to the West Indies, after all.


	4. Rotten Row

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plays yakety sax on repeat*

Babington left with an iron-clad promise to return. Crowe followed his lead shortly thereafter with a much vaguer promise, though all three men knew he would undoubtedly pull through for he always did; and thus Sidney’s morning passed in an uneventful, if distracted, fashion.

Though he had plenty to do, his thoughts circled back to Miss Heywood more often than not. Ruined correspondence laid crumpled at his feet, spotted with ink. The pile grew by the hour. 

Why had a respectable countess chosen her, of all the young ladies who would have gladly pitched one of their own into the Thames for a chance to rise above, when she was plain and in possession of a dowry of little consequence-- a fact he would wager on with absolute certainty, as he’d never heard her name, and just as the Society Book trussed gentlemen up for the slaughter, their more sensitive counterparts were known in similar fashion. It was an anomaly. A bump in the straight-line order. And, despite himself, Sidney was drawn to the mystery, curious to know what must have made her special.

In the logical vein, he also needed to assess the damage.

Lady Worcester was not one to be trifled with. As he would for Miss Lambe, he had no doubt she would come to her charge’s defense with similar fervor, if with a lady’s delicate, though no less devastating, touch.

As everyone knew, the ladder of Society was precarious at best, and a deadly hazard as its worst. The Parkers were a well-bred family from a blueblood line, but beyond a knighthood, they hadn’t a single title to the name. By a stroke of luck, his eldest brother had married up a rung with Mary -- Tom had been and could still be disarmingly charming, when needs must -- and their parents, God rest their souls, had left a comfortable inheritance for each brother and a dowry for Diana. They were settled and well-liked.

Long ago, Sidney had decided his sights were set much higher than _settled._ Perhaps it was the madness inherent in all younger sons that had clutched him tight, but he’d balked at the idea of turning to clergy or commission for a bettering foothold. And as he’d long ago lost his appetite for matrimony, his ambitious climb rested solely on his shoulders through merit and merit alone. By this fact, he was all too aware that it would take only a singular misstep to fall.

While his friendship with Babington had opened doors he hadn’t known existed, he wasn’t clueless nor a fool. His ability to make money hand over fist mattered very little to the peerage. They would gladly deal in business with him in their private parlors, and, in the very same night, happily slam the door to their dinner party in his face. No invitations would come his way, and he could forget about White’s altogether. If he wanted more -- and he always wanted more -- he had to play by the rules. Even if he suspected landowning gentlemen and their tight hold on the way of things would one day go the way of serfdom: as a footnote in history.

But his station and its shifting nature wasn’t what truly unsettled him. 

Always and forever, it seemed the specter of Sanditon was fit to loom over him. 

For years, Tom’s dream of building the village up to rival Brighton had been just that. A passing fancy he would press on during Christmastime, or birthdays, or when the brandy flowed too freely. Sidney loved his brother, but he saw little return on investment in Sanditon, as did most investors or bankers Tom had met with-- his foot in the door, in part, because the name Parker meant something. Then, his brother had gotten his hooks into Lady Denham and her fortune, and the dream had crystallized. It was a ramshackle idea built on silt and sand. Sometimes Sidney felt he was the only one who understood that one swoop of a mighty tide would bring it crumbling into the sea; a realist among idealists. He wanted no part in the venture, but neither did he want to see Tom in a sponging-house, Mary and the children in dire straits, or Arthur and Diana made to pick up the pieces.

He did what was asked of him. Promised to lure friends once summer chased society out to the fringes, and introduced Tom where he could. But the knowledge that the enterprise could crash down on them all at once was staggering, and Sidney knew he didn’t have the means with which to withstand the churn. It was a bitter tonic, but he was not averse to swallowing the truth when he had to. 

No, he wouldn’t grovel to Miss Heywood; but he would tread lightly. At least until he knew what he was facing.

A time later, Sidney’s butler alerted him to Babington’s arrival. “And he offers use of his conveyance,” he said.

Which was well enough. A finely-made carriage with the crest of an earldom would speed them along the cobblestones.

After cleaning his hands of ink and gathering his coat, hat and cane, Sidney walked out the front door of Bedford Place to find the Earl of Babington’s carriage on the pavement. The door swung open by the earl himself -- an incredible feat, to be sure, as most doors that were meant to be opened by footmen and porters had no handle on the inside.

“There he is!” said Babington as Sidney clambered in.

“My apologies, Babs,” he replied. “Time got away from me.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” he said, and after passing a word on to the driver that they were all settled, the carriage lurched and they were off. He turned to Sidney, “You know I’m not one to pass up a stroll down Rotten Row when I’m in such fine company, but the invitation was rather sudden.”

“Miss Lambe asked me to avail myself.”

He leaned forward and laid scrutiny. After a pause, he declared, “Horse shit.”

“Indeed?”

“Utter horse shit. I’ve known you since we were lads in Oxford, Parker, and you’re anxious. Who else is a part of this walking committee?”

Begrudgingly he named Miss Lambe’s usual accomplices, and admitted his suspicion that Miss Heywood and Miss Denham would be in company.

“Miss Denham you say?” Babington murmured, though the carrot Sidney had dangled to distract from the other young lady’s name wasn’t quite enough. He refocused and pounced. “Tell me you don’t mean to call out Miss Heywood in the streets?”

“‘Call out’? Come now, I’m a bastard but I’m not quite a _rat bastard_ , Babs.”

“Then her connection to Lady Susan’s shaken you.”

“You imply me missish.”

“I imply you’ve _sound judgment_. Though perhaps not… if you’ve deceptively carted your bosom friends off to make a scene on the promenade. What a spectacle that’d be, eh?"

“Worry naught, the young maidens are safe from my dastardly wiles.” 

The implication that Crowe and Babington both were meant to be the young maidens was met with the earl’s good-natured laugh. His ability to parody himself just as well as he did others marked him as a different peer of the realm, and a better man than most.

“I’m not much afraid for her as I am afraid _for_ you, my friend,” Babs teased. “I’ve sent my man on a mission to unravel this mystery miss’ connection to the countess. Shall we make a wager? I’ll throw a note down for a long-lost cousin.”

“Plausible, but you don’t think…”

The two gentlemen shared a look as Sidney’s sentence tapered off, as well it should. It was a known secret Lady Susan and the Prince Regent were very, very close acquaintances in the sense that a royal by-blow could have been a consequence. While quietly speculating within oneself was acceptable, frankly speaking it into existence was very poor form indeed.

“Cousin, you said?” asked Sidney.

The ride through the city was slow-going. It wasn’t yet the fashionable hour for the _ton_ to pollute the streets in search of diversion, but as London grew ever larger, the ability to travel even a mile grew ever harder. By the time they reached Grosvenor-gate, it was twenty minutes past the hour. Clearly Miss Lambe and her entourage had not waited, as they were nowhere to be seen.

They might have otherwise altered course, but Babington was determined to see Miss Denham and Sidney had his reasons, and so they pressed on with wordless nods.

An onlooker would have set their pace as ‘brisk’ vice ‘leisurely’ and thus it did not take long at all for the gentlemen to come upon a scene with very familiar actors.

The path that led from the gate was bisected many times through the Park, but the first from the northerly led from Cumberland, notoriously known for its dangerous passing; men on horseback and in other modes of transport thundered through on their way to elsewhere, and accidents sometimes happened. Luckily, it seemed no one was hurt in this case -- physically, at least -- but gentlemen prides were smarting.

“I do say, you nearly rode us down!” a gentleman cried out, and to neither Babington or Sidney’s astonishment, the bellowing was directed at none other than their friend Mr. Crowe who sat within a handsome curricle pulled by two chestnut geldings.

“I hulloed a far distance back,” Crowe retorted, and waved his riding crop to a point behind him. “Perhaps you should have gathered--”

At this point, Sidney and Babington had come upon the crowd. To Sidney’s dismay, he saw that they had indeed caught up to Miss Lambe’s party -- Mrs. Griffith was clutching the Beaufort sisters as if they’d actually been trampled by hooves -- but Georgiana was nowhere to be seen.

“Mrs. Griffiths!” he called out. Her response was a near shriek. The Beaufort sisters jumped together and the man who’d been waving an angry fist at Crowe turned around to reveal himself as Sir Edward Denham. It would have been quite comical if he wasn’t steadily becoming enraged. He stabbed out his hand. “What is the meaning of all-- this?”

“Oh, Mr. Parker, thank _goodness_ you’ve arrived!” cried Mrs. Griffiths. A handkerchief was rapidly produced from her reticule and she waved it about tremulously. “Only by the grace of God did we not meet our end! This gentleman -- if we may even call him such -- almost… almost-- oh, I cannot bear it!”

As she dissolved into tears, he turned his sights onto Crowe -- who looked woefully bored, even as he was being accused of negligent murder -- and Sir Edward. He gave them both a pointed look that demanded an immediate explanation.

“Mr. Parker,” said Sir Edward, “I wish our meeting was under better circumstances, but Mrs. Griffiths is --”

“Come now, gentlemen,” Babington said, clearly and correctly interpreting the situation to be in desperate need of resolution. “Though I am sure Mr. Crowe gave notice of his goings, perhaps the party was so enraptured by its own _very splendid_ company that it-- well, went _unnoticed_.”

Mrs. Griffiths’ tears seized up immediately and she sniffled into her handkerchief. Rightfully assessing the compliment, however saccharine it was, it still came from an earl, and thus made her near-death experience much easier to handle. “Yes, yes, that must be it!”

Sir Edward boggled. “But--”

“You heard her,” said Crowe, “my fair--”

“Mrs. Griffiths,” she said.

Crowe grinned roguishly. “Mrs. Griffiths. Of course. Now, I do apologize for giving you and your lovely charges a fright. Perhaps I may have your permission to take them for a turn as recompense?”

Sir Edward sputtered in disbelief, Babington sighed in relief, and the ladies among company fairly melted.

Sidney, on the other hand, thought he was going insane. “And speaking of charges, Mrs. Griffiths, _where_ is mine?!”

She jumped. “Oh-- _oh!_ Miss Lambe is--” She stared down the path. Her lips trembled. “She is-- well--”

His skin prickled and he gritted his teeth. “Is she _alone_?”

“No, dear Heavens, no, sir, she is with her dear friends Miss Heywood and--”

Sidney stormed off before she finished her sentence. Of all the hair-brained, foolish things Georgiana could have done, being one of three unchaperoned ladies in the middle of Hyde Park quickly jumped to the top of the list. It might have been too much to ask for her presence to go unnoticed -- the promenade in the direction he was stomping was gradually growing busier, and he caught a few surprised glances to his person as he went -- he hoped their lack of chaperone did. Anger crackled in his blood. He’d promised Lambe he would look after her; help her fit into her proper place in Society. Didn’t she care that one scandal could ruin her chances?

“You’re muttering,” said Babington, who must have followed on his heels as he’d fled.

“I may as well let it out now before I unleash it in full force in front of every man, woman and child. And horse.”

“Mrs. Griffiths assured me it was an innocent mistake, and they were all separated after Crowe came along. They can’t have gone far.”

It was true enough, as they came around a slight bend in the path and three young ladies indeed appeared. Miss Denham’s red hair was unmistakable, and Georgiana’s infectious laugh pierced the air. And Miss Heywood-- 

He pulled up short. She swept a fall of chestnut hair to the side at the exact moment he looked to expose the line of her neck. A strange flash of feeling he attributed to his mood shot up his spine.

“Where did you say she came from, Babs?”

Babington, who had eyes only for one lady, turned to him in a daze. “Hm?”

“Miss Heywood,” he prompted.

“How am I to know? I don’t have a primer on every female in England.”

“No, but your aunt does.”

“And now I’m an expert by proxy. You ought to be wearing a powdered wig for this cross-examination,” Babs replied. He shot Sidney a bemused look. “Don’t tell me you’re taken with the girl after one look at her in the daylight?”

“Perish the thought,” he answered sardonically, though they both knew it wasn’t the full truth. 

Done with lagging behind, they both put on speed, and when they reached an appropriate distance for calling out, Sidney did so.

If the scene at the crossroads was fit for the stage, then the one that unfolded now would have been a full-on production made for nightly repeats. Georgiana whipped around on her heel in a decidedly unladylike fashion, and, as her arm was linked with Miss Heywood’s, she too was dragged along. Newton’s laws being what they were, they tumbled to a graceless heap, arms pinwheeling as they went. 

With a thump, dust lifted into the air. 

Miss Denham took a poised step backward to avoid it.

“Good God,” Babington murmured. It was a sentiment with which Sidney heartily agreed.

They hurried forward, each gentleman taking care to upright the ladies in questionable repose.

Once on her feet, Georgiana gave him an incredulous once-over. “You came,” she said faintly.

Anger had fueled his warpath, but he was finding it hard to keep a hold of the emotion now that he was in front of her. Perhaps her fall had knocked it temporarily away, but the general feeling of dislike towards him seemed to have gone. He’d have to give her a stern talking-to about escaping Mrs. Griffiths, but… perhaps not right here, right now. “Well,” he said stiffly, “you _did_ ask.”

Babington cleared his throat -- a poor attempt to choke back laughter -- and Sidney’s gaze swung to his friend, who still had Miss Heywood by the elbow. Dirt and dust ruined her skirts, and her shoulders were shaking. For a moment, he was concerned she was about to cry or faint, but the comedy wasn’t yet over, it seemed, because she began to laugh instead. It spread to Georgiana, and even the stoic Miss Denham cracked a smile.

“Ho, Babington! Ho, Parker!” a voice bellowed, and right on cue, Crowe’s curricle careened around the corner. Reins were pulled and hooves went flying. The conveyance came to a screeching halt. Miss Beaufort -- though one couldn’t be quite sure which sister she was -- sat passenger. She gave a little moan, green around the gills.

“Crowe,” both gentlemen chimed in response. 

Georgiana and Miss Heywood’s laughter had subsided into sniggering giggles at this point, but it was clear Crowe’s arrival was threatening to bring them back into hysterics.

Mrs. Griffiths then made her appearance, huffing and puffing, handkerchief flying aloft. “Oh, sir, Mr. Crowe! Please! Do halt! Miss Beaufort please come down from there this instant -- oh, my life flashed before my eyes!”

Babington went to assist the Miss Beaufort. As she stepped shakily down, Sidney caught the industrious gleam in Georgiana’s eyes.

“I think I shall take Miss Beaufort’s place,” she declared. “What say you, Mr. Crowe?”

“I say it would be my pleasure,” he replied.

“Absolutely not,” Sidney said, but Georgiana was already handing herself up into the death trap and he couldn’t very well grab her bodily out of Crowe’s curricle without causing yet another _scene_. He had no doubt the gossip papers would already be having a field day as it was: an earl coming to the rescue of maidens and their chaperone at the Cumberland crossing; unaccompanied, unmarried ladies falling and laughing hysterically in the midst of gentlemen.

“Fear not, Parker,” said Crowe. He doffed his hat. “Miss Lambe is in my hands.”

“That is what I’m afraid of,” he gritted out just in time to be left, quite literally, in the dust.

Thankfully, the comedy of errors drew to a final end: Mrs. Griffiths and her charges, plus Sir Edward, were quickly wrapped up in Babington’s unerring charm. It did not go unnoticed by Sidney that Miss Denham did not exactly shy away from his attentions either, and even took the earl’s arm when offered as the group proceeded along the path as if nothing at all had recently gone amiss.

Which, unsurprisingly, left Sidney with Miss Heywood. 

“Miss Heywood,” he greeted.

“Mr. Parker,” she replied.

They shared a look -- hers rather more shrewd and assessing than he thought it had any right to be -- but there was naught to be done but for him to offer his arm and her to take it.

They walked in stony silence. Genial chattering from Babington’s brood ahead of them stabbed at them periodically, but the longer they remained unspeaking, the harder Sidney found it to start. Any gentleman worth his salt could hold and lead a conversation; being _good_ at it was almost considered an artform. He was performing very poorly in this case.

“Are you--”

“Can I--”

He looked down at her; she looked up at him. They locked eyes and just as quickly broke apart.

After a moment, she gave a small sigh. “Mr. Parker,” she started carefully, “I owe you an apology. That is-- I wish you’d let me explain my behavior last night before holding further judgment on my character.”

“Go on,” he said, surprised despite himself.

“Though I’ve only known Georgiana -- I mean, _Miss Lambe_ \-- but a short time, I am already very fond of her. And just as quickly, I’ve become… protective.”

A flicker of indignation flashed inside him. 

Before he could reprimand her for any assumptions she may or may not have, she continued on, “There were others last night who were very unkind to Miss Lambe. They said dreadful things. Horrible things. I wanted to-- I wanted so badly to…”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to spill punch on their fine muslin gowns,” she said darkly, as if that punishment wasn’t quite all of what she wanted to do. Her color heightened and she sent him a sideways glance. “I didn’t mean to insert myself how I did after you came, and for that I _am_ sorry.”

“But you’d do it again.”

“If I thought Miss Lambe needed a rescue, in a heartbeat.”

“And who were these _people_ you spoke of _,_ Miss Heywood?”

Her mouth opened and closed. “I’m not sure…”

“If you believe yourself so protective, then surely you’ll feel obliged to tell me so that I may prevent her from encountering these miscreants ever again.”

“Then you may as well shutter her away forever,” she replied sourly. 

“Surely you don’t imply you heard _every_ person--”

“Of course not, sir. But Lady Pandora held court on the subject and, as I am reliably told, all the young ladies of the _ton_ follow to the beat of her drum. Georgiana -- _Miss Lambe_ \-- will be unfairly judged.”

“But not by you.”

“Nor Miss Denham. ‘The eyes are more exact witnesses than the ears.’”

His eyebrows shot up. “Heraclitus.”

She gave him a look that could only be described as smug. “I know.”

“Hm.”

She gave another sigh. “If only they’d give Miss Lambe a chance. Set aside whatever… notions… they have.”

“It’s not so simple,” he replied. “We live by society’s rigid rules, and those who make the rules cannot stand to see the pecking order changed. Miss Lambe is--” He cast around for an explanation, but there wasn’t one suitable for an appropriate conversation with a young lady. He couldn’t very well tell her that the _ton_ was prejudiced beyond belief, even though they were, and had no qualms airing this fact, which they frequently did. Fortunes had been made off sugar and cotton; but, more to the point, the vile industry of buying and selling of human beings. No one would admit the vulgar truth, even as they reveled in its successes. “Miss Lambe is undoubtedly going to bring a very suitable gentleman up to scratch, and I’m sure this Lady Pandora is livid over her change in fortune.”

Miss Heywood eyed him dubiously, but gamely pressed back, “But what if Miss Lambe doesn’t want to marry a man with a title? What if she doesn’t want to marry at all?”

“Why would she not?”

“As you know, anything a woman has upon her marriage becomes her husband's. Her children are his property. He is the master of the house, of _her_. I can’t imagine Miss Lambe would ever be satisfied taking orders from any man.” Again, she glanced his way. “She is very independent.”

“Independence is expensive to maintain, Miss Heywood. A living is wages earned, and respectable women do not work.”

“A respectable woman can indeed, sir! I must mention Mrs. Siddons, or Miss Angelica Catalani.”

“Goddesses of the demimonde, to be sure.”

“Then what of female authors? Surely _that_ must be a genteel enough occupation for you.”

“If she’s too busy writing, then who will rear the children?”

Miss Heywood’s mouth snapped open, no doubt to impart some reproach on his person, but his teasing grin must have dissuaded her. She huffed and the squeeze of her hand against his arm became very hostile indeed. 

“A woman should be able to invest in any business she chooses, or take up any respectable profession, just as a man,” she said. “If she chooses to marry, then so be it; but it hardly seems fair to say: spinsterhood or matrimony. Pick one, young lady, and be happy to burden your family until they turn up their toes, or become window dressing for your husband.”

“Upon my word, Miss Heywood. You have very liberal ideas.”

“Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong. _You_ don’t have to think of marriage at all. You could go to your grave an unmarried man and it would-- it would be _perfectly_ acceptable, whereas a woman is considered ancient at thirty, and ‘left on the shelf’ two years before!”

Her points were fair, so he gave them to her. “I aspire to give Miss Lambe the life she deserves,” he said, then, more wryly, “Preferably with a titled husband.”

“Everyone wants a duke or a viscount, but there’s hardly enough of them to go around or they're ancient. Cannot there be a concession for love? Perhaps even affection, or friendship?”

“Haven’t you heard, Miss Heywood? There isn’t such a thing.”

“And what do you know of love, sir?”

More than her, he’d wagered, but he batted her pointed question away. “You yourself are in Society to husband hunt, are you not?”

“Husband hunt!” Her cheeks turned more blotchy than prettily flushed. “As much as you are looking for a wife, I’m sure. I haven’t found a _single_ gentleman I would happily call ‘husband’. Not a one.”

Seeing that he’d made her well and truly angry, Sidney did not reply, and decided it was best to remain silent for a long while. 

The walk -- despite his current companion and the distant, whooping cries of delight from Mr. Crowe and Georgiana -- was serene and lovely. And it gave him time to think. 

Miss Heywood was not at all what he’d imagined. With her connection to Lady Susan and their brief encounter, he thought she’d be haughty or manipulative; throwing Miss Denham at Lord Babington to weasel her way to _him_ so as not to rock the proverbial boat. But it was clear she was good-hearted, if extremely unconventional, and-- well, he didn’t quite know what to do with her now.

It was good for Georgiana to have a companion who was so steadfast and couldn’t be swayed by the Lady Pandoras of the world, but he _did_ want his ward to take her proper place in Society; meaning, no radical talks of remaining marriageless and, heaven forbid, _working._ Miss Heywood stood as an influence, but a true friend was a rarer find indeed.

“So if you are not in Society for a husband, why _are_ you here?” he asked, finally.

“To see a greater part of the world,” she replied. “I’m from a small village and a large family. Before last year, I’d never been beyond the parish walls. Though… I must confess with _much_ embarrassment on my part… that the idea _is_ for me to marry.”

He arched his eyebrow in good humor. “I see.”

“But I’m not _hunting_ ,” she hastened on to say. “It’s simply that I’m the eldest daughter, and believe it or not, I do know my duty. ‘To marry, and if at all possible, to marry well,’ to quote the _Lady Society’s Monthly Journal._ But I have little to offer. Beyond myself.”

Sidney, who long thought he’d lost in heart many years ago, felt it flutter at the bald misery in her words. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’m not fishing for pity, Mr. Parker,” she said. “My dance card remained empty all night at the ball, and I received but _one_ flower this morning.”

His pulse jumped in his throat. “You didn’t like them?”

“They were exquisite,” she lamented, “but how can I truly come to love them when they were so clearly arranged by my patroness?”

Wrestling with the idea of confessing that the flowers were, in fact, sent from him via Lord Babington, he instead wondered if his friend had taken his suggestion at face value and wrote an idiotic love confession on the card. Clearly not, as Miss Heywood hadn’t punched him on sight. “Then perhaps I can solve the dance card problem, and promise to take you about the room-- if we are ever again at the same assembly hall. If you’d like.”

For this, he earned a surprised look from Miss Heywood. “If you insist,” she said, after a moment. “I rather do like dancing.”

The rest of the walk continued on. He learned a little more about Miss Heywood’s circumstances and found, once they weren’t arguing, that she could be quite nice company. And just as that thought popped into his head, he also had to admit she wasn’t _quite_ as plain as he’d thought the previous night-- even if she lacked conventional beauty. Her eyes twinkled when she smiled, and she rather smiled a lot. By the time Crowe and Georgiana rejoined the walking group, all limbs and appendages intact, Sidney found he rather didn’t mind Miss Heywood at all. It was a rapid amendment of his esteem which, in his experience, always meant trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Angelica Catalani](https://candicehern.com/regencyworld/angelica-catalani-1780-1849/)
> 
> [Sarah Siddons](https://candicehern.com/regencyworld/sarah-siddons-1755-1831/)


	5. The Waltz

“--and it is noted with much interest that Mr. Sidney Parker, lately of London, was seen in company with a recently unknown Miss Heywood after the aforementioned near-mishap at the Cumberland Crossing,” Lady Susan finished reading the gossip spot by fluffing it with great flourish and then setting it aside.

Charlotte wanted to melt into her seat. Only a day had passed since the walk in Hyde Park. It felt impossible that anyone -- especially a notorious gossip columnist -- would take note of her comings and goings, or who she’d been seen with, but there it was in print. Two decades in Willingden had passed without much fuss. How had so much transpired in only two days now that she was in London? “Lady Susan--”

“My dear Charlotte,” she said, “how many times must I insist on dropping the courtesy when we are dining _en famille_?”

“At least once more,” she replied with a smile, but even she could tell it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the second breakfast she sat having to explain her actions of the day previous. Surely Lady Susan had not expected a country girl to be such trouble. “I can’t even begin to express, _yet again_ , how sorry I am if I’ve embarrassed you--”

“You did no such thing,” Lady Susan interrupted firmly. “We’ve all been the subject of idle and inane scrutiny at least once. Is it, after all, what happens when you push all us busybody aristos together.”

If Charlotte had had tea, she would have choked on it. “Please, I do not deserve a defense.” _Not at your expense_ went unsaid.

“Fear not, it is for my benefit and mine alone. I must make fun of myself at least once a week, otherwise I fear I will succumb to my own hubris,” she said, and leaned in to whisper _sotto voice_ , “I keep a very tight schedule, if you must know.”

“And it coincides neatly on the morn I grace Lady Society’s column.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” It was clear she would allow no further self-castigation on Charlotte’s part. “You walked with a gentleman in a public park in view of a chaperone and in good company. Tongues will wag and eyebrows may rise, but you haven’t discredited yourself nor me by any means. If anything, Society is on tenterhooks for what you will do next.”

Her stomach clenched. “Me?”

“You’ve befriended two very interesting young ladies with a cut of another,” she replied, “and have been seen twice now with very popular gentlemen, to include Lord Babington--”

“He’s very nice,” she murmured dazedly.

“Quite right, but he also happens to be in line for a duchy. All this without mentioning your friendship with me. Forgive my vanity, but I _am_ the Countess of Worcester. Your arrival has made a splash, my dear, and the Season’s barely begun.”

Charlotte took a nice, long sip of her tea. Now that Lady Susan had laid out the pieces, she was able to see the outsider’s perspective: she had unwittingly made herself popular. Perhaps not in a good sense -- or in any other sense but making others curious, for now -- but her gut feelings had somehow guided her toward the front-and-center. Spurning the most popular lady at the ball had indeed made a statement. For the London set who wanted to see a scheme play out, she may as well have painted herself as the cunning villainess for them.

“I didn’t mean to draw attention to myself,” she said, finally and awkwardly. “Even when you and I first met, I could barely keep myself from spilling my thoughts. I often act at the behest of my emotions.”

“We all do, at some point or other,” said Lady Susan.

“Yes, but in Willingden I have very few people to offend, as everyone knows my nature well enough.” She barely restrained herself from chewing on her bottom lip. “Perhaps… Perhaps I should go home.”

“Absolutely not. No. You mustn’t, Charlotte.” Lady Susan moved to hold Charlotte’s hand. “Your adventure has barely begun. Don’t you remember what you told me at Lady Smythe’s ball? You said your greatest wish was to see the world for yourself. London is only your first step, my dear, and I will not let you run away from your destiny so soon.”

She couldn’t speak, her throat clamped tightly together with the urge to cry. Lady Susan had been so very kind to her from the start. The fact that she’d remembered Charlotte’s rambling monologue about her dreams of Italy and France and beyond poked and prodded at the little, quiet voice inside of her that told her she was unworthy of such attention. Ridiculously lucky was what she was, to have found such a dear friend. She sniffled, and dabbed at the corners of her eye with the cloth hastily offered forth by a nearby footman.

“Thank you, Lady Susan,” she replied, after she’d comported herself.

“ _Susan_.” Lady Susan patted her hand. “Now that I’m relatively sure you aren’t going to run… let us have some fun. What of this Mr. Parker?”

Again, Charlotte was very glad she’d left her teacup on the saucer. “Mr. Parker?” she squeaked.

Lady Susan’s eyes gleamed. “The very one.”

“There is-- well, what can I say?” She cast about for a quick escape, but there wasn’t one readily available, lest she wanted to feint a swoon. “He arrived suddenly at the Park--”

“Oh?”

“Because Miss Lambe asked him to!”

“I see.”

“And I thought he was going to confront me--”

“Ah?”

“But he didn’t. Well. I suppose we _did_ argue a bit. He had this very annoying idea that Georgiana _must_ marry a titled man, regardless of her wants or affection toward said man, which is preposterous -- marriage surely can’t lie directly on the foundation of one’s ability to wield a banknote! And when I asked him about love, he said it didn’t exist and then accused _me_ of husband-hunting!” 

She drew in a sharp breath, the memory of her conversation with Mr. Parker having unlocked a spark of indignation she’d tried to bury under good cheer. He really wasn’t so bad, on the whole, but the way he’d breezily countered her statements picked at something inside of her. On the exhale, she realized Lady Susan was looking at her thoughtfully.

“I have never seen you quite so… lively,” said Lady Susan, “when speaking on a gentleman.”

“None had yet given me cause,” she said, but she saw immediately that her reply had tumbled her into an easily-wrought trap.

“Passion and anger are different sides of the same coin, my dear. Similarly to love and hate.”

“Oh, Susan, you can’t possibly be trying to say… to say that…”

“No, no. Of course not. Two encounters don’t make a match.”

Charlotte nodded slowly along, but Lady Susan’s easy dismissal did not offer her any relief for some instinct told her the missing end to the statement was: _But it could._

-

Unbeknownst to Charlotte or Lady Susan, Mr. Sidney Parker was making his way across town at that very moment. Had he known he was the topic of discussion, he would have been able to explain the worrisome itch of his ears which had started the moment he’d stepped foot in the hackney and he might have left it alone. As it was, he was sure he’d left the driver thinking he had some incurable ear-related malady.

Augusta Griffiths' Boarding House for Gentle Ladies was wedged between other similar boarding homes, and sat not too far from the Bloomsbury district and Bedford Square. The walk wasn’t terribly far, but the grey overcast promised rain and the less time he strayed here, the better.

As soon as he stepped foot on the cobblestones, curtains split open and curious faces gathered at window panes to watch him walk by. He felt like prey. A gazelle amongst lionesses. Worry of being hunted down by an ambitious mama nipped at his heels and hurried him up the steps to relative protection.

Mrs. Griffiths answered his summons with a cry of surprise, as though he hadn’t sent a note with his intentions of coming by and hadn’t received a reply with her full support.

“Mr. Parker, how nice of you to visit!” she said the words loudly enough that he was sure the entire street was now privy to his arrival if they hadn’t been before, and summarily dragged him inside.

A row of floral arrangements were lined up in the small foyer, but it otherwise lacked ostentatious decoration. He’d employed Mrs. Griffiths due to her decent reputation and word-of-mouth recommendation, but this was his first actual visit to the boarding house itself. He was glad to see it was clean, and if not swathed in finery, well-maintained.

He followed Mrs. Griffiths to the parlor room, which wasn’t far down the hall at all, and found Georgiana and the Beaufort sisters therein. Only one of the ladies seemed unshaken by his arrival, and he and Georgiana shared a brief -- and, truth be told, unusual -- moment of amusement as the Beauforts began stabbing their embroidery with extreme and dangerous haste.

“Miss Lambe,” he said, and sketched a quick bow, “and the Misses Beauforts. Good day.”

“Ouch!” one of the sisters cried, and Georgiana rolled her eyes.

Sidney sent her a cool look of warning. She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders in reply.

After ensuring no permanent damage had come, the sisters were ushered from the parlor room, and Mrs. Griffiths busied herself with arranging tea and refreshments.

Alone at last, ward and guardian faced off.

Though it would have been proper to remain standing, Sidney took a seat in the armchair across Georgiana and removed his hat. “You know why I’ve come, I’m sure.”

“No doubt to march me to the guillotine,” said replied, chin tilting up in defiance.

“Imported from France, to be sure.”

“It must have cost you a fortune, _Sidney._ ”

Now he wanted to roll his eyes. Georgiana held herself straight-backed and still, as if he was truly going to march her up a platform to meet a sharp end. He reminded himself, gently, that she was but a young woman, in a relatively strange place, and it was indeed possible to have a conversation without letting her goad him into anger. He was an adult. “Can we not be civil with one another?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why? What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened. Civility is the way of the world. You and I are both too… mature… to converse any other way.”

“Too mature? I don’t believe you. Something’s happened.” Her eyes narrowed further. “You’re in a good mood.”

He didn’t think Georgiana paid him enough mind to know him so well, but she wasn’t entirely wrong. Though the more she harangued him, the less true it was becoming. “You accused me not one minute ago of threatening you with the guillotine, and now you say I’m in a good mood.”

“It’s precisely because you didn’t react that I have no other choice but to think so.” Her suspicion smoothed away all at once, replaced instead with a look of mild resignation. “You’ve found a way to rid yourself of me, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve come. Placed me here with Mrs. Griffiths permanently--”

“Georgiana,” he interrupted forcefully. Her demeanor had swung entirely to the left of morose, and as usual, he had no guide with which to smoothly navigate. He was neither father nor friend, and knew she would balk at any of his attempts to fill those roles. More softly, he continued, “You will not be rid of me so easily, no matter what it is you do or say.”

He saw her hands relax from fists, but disbelief still colored her expression.

“I want us to come to an understanding. That’s why I’ve come today,” he said. “Neither one of us could have foreseen our current circumstances, but they are what they are… and until you marry, or come into your majority, they won’t change. I am your guardian, and I want to see you settled. I want to honor your father’s last wish.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the words: _I want to see you happy_. But his words were otherwise direct, and he hoped they would be enough to bridge the gap between them, if only momentarily. Silence hung between them for a long while, and Georgiana’s scrutiny of him intensified. 

Eventually, her defiant gaze cut away to the fireplace. “And what about what I want?”

He thought then of Miss Heywood, and her radical ideas of remaining unmarried; of choosing one’s own fate without regard to society’s rigid structure. “What _is_ it that you want?”

“You’ve never asked me that before,” she said. “Not even when you came to collect me. Not even when you brought me here. You only ever tell me what to do, or where to go, or how to behave. Forgive me if I haven’t an answer to give you now.”

“Forgive me for not asking sooner, then.”

Her eyes swung back to his. “You’ve gone mad.”

“No, Miss Lambe, I want you to stop driving me mad. Clambering into dangerous curricles and running off in Hyde Park unchaperoned-- it’s not _done._ ”

“Well, I did it and I sit here unharmed still.” Her lips twitched up into a barely-there smile. “Though I must admit Mr. Crowe took a turn or two that had me holding onto my bonnet for dear life.”

“I’d assumed those screams were from delight.”

“Oh, they were,” she laughed, and sobered quickly, as if realizing she had just shared a moment of humor with him. “It’s not like you’d care either way.”

“There you go again with your assumptions, Miss Lambe. I care _very_ much. D’you think I would insert myself into your life as often as I do if I didn’t?” 

As he spoke, the realization formed; of course the girl didn’t think he cared a whit about her. Beyond a few moments of warmth at the very beginning, he’d done what he thought one did with a ward, and placed himself thoroughly at arm’s length away. Distancing himself might have ordinarily worked, but Georgiana was not ordinary. This was the first time he’d visited her at home. Yesterday was the first time he’d taken up her offer for a walk. There had been no disguising her shock at his arrival. 

As if allowing him his cruel epiphany, Georgiana did not comment.

He took a breath. “Asking us to be allies may be too much, but let us not be enemies.”

“You’re asking for common ground. _Asking_.” She made a show of pinching her forearm. “I must be dreaming.”

“It’s rather more of a negotiation,” he replied dryly. “Now, if you’re quite done with the dramatics...”

As far as terms went, he and Georgiana spent a better part of an hour talking and, ever the daughter of Mr. Lambe, she drove a hard bargain. To his surprise, the majority of her demands were, more or less, that he take a vested interest in her Season; attend more functions, and come to know the men who, as she claimed, he was so ready to shackle her with.

“If you want me properly _settled_ ,” she said, “then it’s only fair you experience the same torture.”

“A ball can hardly be compared to a pillory.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any complaints attending one with me.”

He nearly groaned. “I’m busy.”

“I have six invitations thus far. Surely your schedule can fit one of them,” she said innocently. Said invitations were conjured from her notebook, and she spread them out like a deck of cards. Her grin reminded him altogether too much of her father. “Take your pick, Mr. Parker.”

A week later and three days later, Sidney found himself attending the Duchess of Kingston’s ball. Without asking, he’d been informed that it was to celebrate her youngest daughter’s coming "out", and promised to be one of the Season’s finest parties.

He arrived at the palatial manse fashionably late so as to avoid the parade of announcements. Anonymity in such a well-traveled crowd wouldn’t last long, but the current crush allowed him to procure a drink and scan his environment in peace. The receiving room was enormous; its ceiling painted in the _trompe l'oeil_ style. Music mingled with voices, and either hallway was packed.

Too soon, he was intercepted by a fellow, who introduced Sidney to more fellows, and talk turned to nebulous remarks on business and quickly proceeded into meatier gossip. Though women often held the title of being nosey, Sidney had it on good authority to say that men were worse.

“Say, Parker,” said a man who Sidney was reasonably sure was named Cummings, “weren’t you just talk of the town a fortnight back?”

“I couldn’t say,” was his dry response, though the group toasted with hearty cheers as if he were playing at coy. He truly hadn’t a clue. From time to time, Babington sent him a clipping in the post with a personal note, but to his knowledge none had been recently received.

“Right, right,” Cummings said. “That Miss Heywood looks like she’d give a man a good thrashing if he kiss-and-told, eh? A little rough around the edges but nothing a little polish couldn’t fix up!”

The group again burst into laughter and side comments, and Sidney had the sudden urge to grab Cummings by the cravat and shake his brains loose.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” he snapped, his tone sour enough Cummings held his hands up in a placating manner. The comment begged for a proper set-down, but the night had barely begun and he was far too sober for an altercation. “I’ll remind you that Miss Heywood is a young lady.”

“Quite right, quite right,” someone else said, and Sidney quickly excused himself.

As soon as he was free, he could have hit himself. No matter what asinine rumor had been floating among the masses, he had all but declared it true. The lady doth protest too much, after all, and he’d nearly fought a man.

Even so, he couldn’t begin to wonder what Cummings referenced. The last time he’d seen Miss Heywood, it was departing her company at the Park. Though he knew Georgiana and her made frequent social calls with one another -- and apparently attended a tea party or some such with Miss Denham -- he hadn’t again crossed her path.

In a way, he felt like he knew her like he knew a character in a favorite novel. Georgiana had taken his olive branch and ran with it, and thus had taken to writing him alarmingly detailed accounts of her activities; and, like a very clever punishment, quizzed him at their next meeting to ensure he’d read them. Miss Heywood was a frequent personality, saying and doing very clever things.

Eventually, either he found Babington or Babington found him and he was able to privately ask for an explanation, but whatever sordid affair he’d been imagining turned out to be, quite literally, a tepid walk in the park.

“Damn,” he cursed. His reaction had been well and truly overblown. “Cummings made it sound like we’d gotten on in the hedgerows.”

“I keep telling you to read the blasted papers yourself,” Babington said. “Source material and all that. What’s the harm, eh? You defended the girl’s honor. Besides, Cummings is a slimy windbag and no one listens to him anyway.”

Sidney lifted his glass and they clinked a toast.

Soon after, the sea of people ahead of them parted and Babington gave him a swift elbow to the side. “There she is,” he whispered.

For a moment, Sidney’s mind jumped to Miss Heywood, but a flash of red hair across the room dashed his hopes. _Hopes?_ He blinked at his glass of traitorous ratafia and quickly tamped down his unwarranted reaction. “You don’t need my permission to approach,” he said dryly.

“No, but reinforcements, especially when advancing upon Miss Denham, are preferred. Come, she can’t say no to the both of us.”

“She _can_ ,” he started to say, but Babington was already gone.

The wall of young ladies preceded the alcove of watchful matrons and ambitious chaperones. They were not quite hidden by two large ferns, and Sidney wearily made his way towards them, cursing his friend all the while. Where was Crowe when he was needed to take the fall -- or any other living, breathing gentleman for that matter? 

Fans and eyelashes fluttered. He couldn’t be entirely certain, but he was sure he saw one young lady shoved mercilessly forward.

His first stop was Georgiana, who barely hid her wide grin behind her fan. It seemed his discomfort was still her greatest joy.

“You should have heard the heaving sighs as you and Lord Babington crossed the floor.” She threw a dramatic wrist against her forehead. “All in company were fit to swoon. ‘Oh, here he comes!’”

“Cease the theatrics, Miss Lambe.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Indeed that’s the whole point of a guardian.”

Next, he drifted by Babington and his efforts with Miss Denham. It seemed to be going well enough, and so he did not flank the enemy.

Thus he dutifully let himself be introduced to a handful of young women and made his inquiries on open dance cards. He felt almost bad as accomplishments were succinctly rattled off: watercolors, pianoforte, singing, French and Latin and sewing, and so on. He was half-expecting to be shown haunches and teeth next.

Just as he earned his freedom from one mother-daughter duo, another woman caught his eye. He noted with some alarm that he recognized her, and that she was the Countess of Worcester. 

She made a motion to the young lady who stood beside her, and Sidney nearly swallowed his tongue as she turned around.

It was Miss Heywood. Sparkling flower buds were interspersed throughout her coiffure. Her dress was trimmed with delicate lace and a splash of matching jewelry hung at her earlobes and neck. A pretty flush dusted her cheeks, and he realized with minor mounting horror that during the inspection he’d walked right up to her and the countess.

“Good evening, Lady Susan,” he said with a deeper bow than strictly necessary. They had met a thrice before, but he’d broken form by his uninvited approach.

“Mr. Parker,” she replied, inclining her head with an unreadable smile. “I believe you know Miss Heywood?”

“I do,” he said. He turned his gaze onto Miss Heywood now. “I was hoping to make good on my promise.”

She blinked up at him, then gave a little jerk and said, “On the dance, of course.” 

Her fan snapped open.

He leaned over, and saw that she still had three spots left; for a young lady who’d told him she hadn’t danced a single round a week prior, it wasn’t a bad showing at all. “If Lady Susan will allow it, I would take the next waltz.”

Sidney was sure the countess was laughing at them behind her flute of champagne. “I wouldn’t dream of getting in your way.”

“Then the matter is settled,” he said, but Miss Heywood frowned up at him.

“What if I said I preferred a country dance or a quadrille?”

A few gasps erupted around them.

“Then I shall of course defer to your preferences,” he replied, and a warmth he attributed to the ratafia settled in his stomach at the teasing gleam in her eyes. Clearly she hadn’t forgotten their heated talk about choices and was not about to let him easily off the hook.

With a satisfied nod, she scribbled his name down. “A waltz will do, sir.”

He cleared off with Babington on his heels, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he fled.

“I barely escaped with my life,” Babington said in ridiculously high spirits, “but it was worth it. She is thawing yet, Parker. I think I’ve found my match.”

“Don’t let anyone hear you say that, lest your aunt begin preparations for St George’s.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Really?” They pulled up to an empty swath of wall, and he glanced over at Miss Denham. To his surprise, he caught her doing the same. He was certain he did not mistake the tender look in her eyes, but it was shuttered away in a blink. “Honestly, she isn’t who I would have imagined for you. She seems so… cold.”

“She is, and she isn’t. There’s more to her than meets the eye, and I swear I will uncover it before Season’s end.”

“If you say so,” he said, and time passed in a wave of dancing and drinking. He collected his partners, one by one, and made idle talk where he could; most of the young ladies did what they were taught to do when in conversation with a gentleman and neatly reflected his own opinions back to him. It was dreadfully boring; and he realized, by the time the waltz was announced, that he was actually looking forward to hearing Miss Heywood’s free and vocal thoughts.

She met him at the edge of the dance floor, and he wordlessly led her to its center. Her hand felt small in his, and warm even through their gloves. They faced one another; he bowed, she dipped into a curtsy. They stepped together, and the music started. She easily followed his lead; and where his other partners had focused their gaze to a point near his throat, she looked him straight on.

“I’m glad you humored me with the waltz, Miss Heywood,” he said.

“I couldn’t refuse.” Her mouth twitched into a smile. “It would have been very embarrassing for you.”

“True enough, but I wasn’t at all worried.”

“Oh?”

“You haven’t had the pleasure of my company in a fortnight.”

“I’ve yet to ascribe the word ‘pleasant’ to you, Mr. Parker.”

“For accuracy’s sake, I must note that I used the word pleasure.” As her color heightened, he continued on, “Surely you did not want to lose a single ‘pleasant’ minute of conversation with me to a quadrille.”

“Is that what that was?” she rallied. “You know me so well.”

“I feel like I do.” At the quirk of her eyebrow, he elaborated, “Miss Lambe writes to me at frequent intervals. Your exploits are highlighted with alacrity.”

Her mouth popped open. “They are not. She does not.”

“She does, but that is as much as I will say on the matter. Even under duress.”

“I will step on your toes,” she threatened him.

“I can’t believe that.” He let her go into a neat spin, and caught her easily on her return. “You’re too graceful a dancer.”

“I’m not a biscuit to be buttered, sir,” she laughed. “I am not so vain that I cannot admit your talents are the only reason we haven’t careened off into the refreshments table. I do like dancing very much, but alas, I am not so accomplished to be considered _very good_. However, I applaud your efforts to avoid betraying Miss Lambe’s confidence.”

“It’s been hard-won, if I’ve won it at all.”

She shrugged her shoulders a bit. “It’s not for me to say.”

“Of course,” he said. He turned them to avoid another couple and she indeed trod over his foot with a surprised gasp. He hissed in pain but soldiered on. “Ow. How have I angered you now, Miss Heywood? I concede in every respect.”

“Good, my plan is working,” she said, though her bright expression of worry undercut her deadpan words. “Will you ever walk again?”

“I can’t yet be sure,” he replied, and turned her in a much slower four-step.

“I _am_ very sorry,” she said, the perfect picture of sincere. “Forgive me.”

“You did warn me,” he replied. A thought came to him then: “And it would be remiss of me to let your apology in Hyde Park hang, yet accept this one wholeheartedly. As I understand it, we were too busy discussing acceptable, genteel professions for women.”

“You are generous to call it a discussion,” she said lightly, “as if we were scholars combing through Shakespeare or-- or--”

“Heraclitus.”

Her smile broadened. “Indeed.”

“Who else have you read?”

“In keeping with the alphabet, Homer comes to mind. _The Iliad_ , most recently. ‘Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed.’”

“‘You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.’”

They shared a moment of quiet together, perhaps reflecting on the quoted passage.

Miss Heywood looked away, then suddenly back. If the light wasn’t tricking him, he swore her eyes were glassier than before. “You’re very familiar with it.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I wouldn’t have marked you as a lover of Greek poets, that’s all.”

“One will read most anything when on a month’s long voyage with nothing to pass the time but nibble hardtack and salted meats. I was never a more voracious reader.”

“Salted meats.” Her nose scrunched up. “Then-- do you have a library?”

He did. “A few shelves.”

“If it’s not too forward of me, perhaps you can recommend me your favorite.”

“Has Lady Susan already barred you from her books?” he teased.

“No, but I have a theory; that a man’s preferred title will reveal his true nature.”

“And you want to know me.”

“It would be only fair.” She did not look away. “No one writes to me detailing _your_ exploits.”

The music drew to a close, and Sidney found that he was actually lost for words.

They exited the far side of the dance floor, and he offered his arm to escort her back. As he left her in the care of Lady Susan, dismissed of the responsibility of fetching them both lemonade, he knew with dreadful certainty that he was dancing dangerously close to a feeling he hadn’t felt in many, many years.


	6. A Villain or Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say thank you to everyone reading and commenting; you are the best, and i hope you stick around for this rom-comedy of errors <3

As soon as Mr. Parker had wrangled a satisfactory promise of good behavior and departed to submit himself to ambitious mamas, Georgiana was rapidly set on by company she desired even less: Mr. Cummings. She looked to the left, then to the right, but his sights were set directly on her. Escape was indeed futile. Mrs. Griffiths was introducing the Beaufort sisters to a pair of bored-looking gentlemen, Miss Denham was pretending to rebuff Lord Babington, and Charlotte was making the rounds with her friend the countess. It seemed she had no choice but to bear her burden. Painting a pallid smile on her face, she snapped open her fan, and prepared for the tedious smalltalk to come.

“Miss Lambe,” Mr. Cummings said, “I am pleased to see you’ve graced us with your presence yet again.”

“Good evening, sir,” she replied coolly. Though they weren’t yet a full hour into the ball, he reeked of whiskey and his cheeks had taken on an unattractive, florid redness. She had been introduced to the man at Season’s start, and Georgiana had thus been warned, on multiple occasions and by multiple persons, that he was a lecherous old windbag in want of a wife to continue feeding his slew of vices. Even with a previous acquaintance between them, his slide into her space was rather insulting and, she suspected, purposefully lowering. Perhaps he thought her easily manipulated, but more likely he thought too highly of himself. He was precisely the type of man Georgiana wanted to point to when Mr. Parker talked of marriage: _This is who you would settle me with?_ No, she wouldn’t entertain Mr. Cummings for all the world… but she _had_ promised Sidney she would behave.

“What a pretty dress,” he said, and his hand lifted as if he wanted to touch her, “and such a unique coiffure. Is the style French?”

Her throat tightened. “I would not know, sir, as I have never been.”

“Such a shame. You should travel, Miss Lambe.” He leaned in. “I have several estates in France, and a lovely terrace house in Paris. I can almost picture you there with me now.”

It was absolutely the most forward a man had been with her, _ever_ , but where she thought she would find anger or a clever retort, she saw only the yawning, dark abyss of the months to come opening before her. Men like Cummings rarely took no for an answer. She’d seen it before. He would only think her vehement denials as demure, coquettish play. 

“I’ve traveled enough for a lifetime,” she replied stiffly. “And even if I had not, I certainly would never impose on _your_ hospitality.” 

He smiled at her bare hostility. “Surely the young lady will give me leave to convince her otherwise.”

Her fanning grew more vigorous as she looked again for an escape. “I doubt very much we would have the time required to make it so.”

“Nay, I should think during the next dance would do very well.”

“I disagree most ardently, sir--”

He inched closer.

And just as Georgiana was beginning to believe the wretched man was preparing to drag her bodily, consent or no, out on the floor, a throat was cleared to their left, and a deep voice said, “Quite right, Miss Lambe. Apologies, Cummings, but the next set was promised to me.”

Lord Peregrin there loomed large, and Georgiana was obliged to continue the ruse by taking his proffered hand. Cummings, clearly not wanting to scuffle with the young lord whose manse they were now in, backed off, and Georgiana let herself be led away. 

“Are you alright?” he asked after a moment. His gaze was aimed to a point over her shoulder.

“I had it well in hand, my lord,” she replied, but saying so made her feel rather ungrateful. “But I appreciate your assistance. Mr. Cummings was…”

“Ungraciously persistent.”

She inclined her head. “That is a tactful way of putting it.”

“How would you put it?”

“I’d say he was being a boorish _ass_.”

Instead of emitting a scandalized gasp at her unladylike language, Lord Peregrin laughed. “An accurate description indeed. You don’t mince words, Miss Lambe.”

“No, only men.”

He grinned then and offered her his arm. “Come, you owe me the dance.”

A merry reel began and gave no room for further talk. By the end, Georgiana had to admit that the lord was indeed an adept dancer partner, just as he’d been the first time they had done, and her spirits had lifted.

He led her off the floor as the music ended, and she noted with some happiness that he’d chosen an exit far away from Mr. Cummings’ current post at the refreshments table. To her consternation, however, he did not immediately take his leave of her.

“So, what is my prize?” he asked. At her questioning look, he continued, “I’ve won your challenge for a second dance.”

She scoffed. “That is hardly fair, my lord, and you know it. Under the circumstances, it would be ungentlemanly of you to ask me to count the wager won. Contracts made under duress are inadmissible in the law courts, and so should an agreement between two people and a proverbial handshake.”

“You ought to read law, Miss Lambe,” he said, “for your logic is sound and above reproach. I will withdraw my gloating post haste. Next time I will come about the dance fairly and without your need of a rescue.”

A stubborn unwillingness to let him charm her made her turn her face away so as to hide her smile. “Then to the matter of the rescue -- how did you come upon us?”

“Their Graces insisted I mingle with the young ladies tonight,” he explained. “No skin off my nose, you see, as I am deeply entrenched in the saga between my friend Lord Babington and his Miss Denham… therefore, I was in the vicinity.”

“You amuse yourself at your friends’ expense _and_ eavesdrop? My, my.”

“Badly done, I know.” He smiled. “Or perhaps you might believe I was making my way to converse with you.”

“I don’t know you well enough to choose your narrative, my lord,” she replied. There was something in the way he was looking at her she didn’t quite like -- or, rather, she _did_ like and was unsettled by the passive thought. Lord Peregrin was known as a scoundrel, but, more to the point, he was a handsome young lord who had no proper business engaging in anything, friendship or otherwise, with an heiress from Antigua. She had a place in Society, but they both knew it could not be with him. Whatever he wanted from her, if he wanted anything at all, would not bode well for either party. “I see my friend now, and therefore it is only right to free you from my company so that you may continue saving other damsels in need. Good evening.”

He bowed, she curtsied, and they parted ways.

The room was suddenly too hot. Though she had told Lord Peregrin she’d seen her friends, both Charlotte or Miss Denham were engaged in conversation or a dance, and so she went in search of peace on the terrace.

It was cool outside, and quiet, though she quickly realized she wasn’t alone. 

None other than Lady Pandora there stood on the lower level, arms wrapped around her middle.

Georgiana pulled herself into the shadows, gripped with sudden curiosity. It was evident Pandora was-- waiting. On what or who was yet to be seen, but Georgiana did not have to wait long to discover she’d accidentally stumbled upon an amorous rendezvous.

A gentleman ascended the steps.

Georgiana strained to see his face amid the shadows. There was something familiar about him, but she could not quite put her finger on where she’d seen him before.

After a kiss -- which did not involve lips brushed chastely over gloved knuckles -- the man and Pandora began to speak in earnest. Unluckily for them, and luckily for Georgiana, their voices drifted up over the balustrade and right into the echoey alcove Georgiana had made her perch.

 _I should leave._ As much as she despised Pandora, it did not feel altogether _right_ to witness her ruination. But just as she made to flee, a name was spoken and stopped her dead.

“Edward, you _must_ ruin her,” said Pandora. “You said you would! You promised!”

“My dear,” he crooned, “you must understand--”

“No, _you_ must understand that I cannot abide a single moment more of that insipid _heathen_ running free among _us_ like she belongs here!”

“Miss Lambe is protected,” came the reply. “Her guardian is a formidable foe and rather more established among his betters than I’d thought. I’m afraid I cannot move against him without much peril to my own position.”

Georgiana clutched a hand to her chest, heart hammering wildly. Her legs threatened to fold.

“A craven lie,” spat Pandora. “You do this to protect the heart of your dearest Miss Denham. Surely she couldn’t stand to see her one and only friend cast out of Society.”

“Now, now,” his voice had cut low in warning, even as it dripped with sweet saccharine honey, “I would remind you to not speak ill of my sister.”

“ _Sister_? Ha! Such a brotherly turn of phrase,” sniffed Pandora. “Why, just last season you were readily wielding the ‘step’ relation between you two like a sword.”

Now Georgiana clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breath came rapidly. She’d been overcome only twice in her life, but she feared she was now well on her way to a third swoon.

“Jealousy does not become you,” he said. “Esther is none of your concern.”

“You haven’t seen jealousy yet,” came the tart reply. “I am tired of waiting for you to make a move, and so I am irritable. That’s all. As you know, my dearest papa will not see our union fit until you come into a suitable situation.”

“And I might remind you that tainting Miss Lambe’s prospects will not help my chances of amending my esteem -- or pocketbooks -- in your dearest papa’s eyes.”

“Indeed not. He said you were a penniless rakehell,” was Pandora’s barbed reply. There was a hint of tearful sniffling in the insulting silence that followed as if to soften the hearts of man. “I thought-- well, I thought if you were to dispatch Miss Lambe, then you and I might--”

“Might?”

“That I may be able to lead Papa to believe you are indeed a worthy match,” she said. “ _I_ know you to be so, and I am utterly sure Papa need only see the contents of your heart to give us his most ardent blessing.”

Sir Edward gave a light laugh. “My lovely, sweet… _vindictive_ Pandora. If I agree to do what you ask of me then I’m afraid there will naught be any good left within me.”

“Then there must be another way. If only to preserve your golden honor.”

“You discredit me to think I hadn’t thought of an alternative--”

But whatever plan Sir Edward Denham had meant to expound upon was interrupted by the clatter of the terrace doors swinging out. A bundle of drunken gentlemen cavorted into the open air, laughing and japing amongst themselves, and the pair of conspirators took their leave not a moment too soon by darting off into the dark.

There Georgiana stayed in the shadows until her heart calmed and her legs no longer shook, which, in truth, took quite some time.

-

Charlotte watched Mr. Parker’s figure retreat into the crush. 

Though the waltz had ended, she felt as if she’d remained spinning on the floor. 

“Goodness,” breathed Lady Susan. “Are you sure you and Mr. Parker have only ever met the three times?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I am sure.”

In the circle of his arms, however, this fact did not feel true. Without meaning to, she’d spent the entirety of their dance... _flirting_. There was no point in denying Mr. Parker’s good looks, but she knew his comeliness had little to do with her current feelings. There was an ease she felt around him that no other man had ever inspired. He was alarmingly charming. After being rebuked by him and told to cease her friendship with Georgiana, she’d expected him to regard her in further poor light after escaping Mrs. Griffiths’ clutches in Hyde Park; but, instead, they had come to an impasse. He’d listened to her; even seemed to concede points in her argument’s favor. Then he looked at her tonight with a warmth so unlike their thunderous first pass, and she’d fallen into a thrall. She still felt the heat of his hands against hers, and she knew there was no use in feigning disinterest. If only Alison could see her now, the great hypocrite she was.

As if to test a hypothesis, she tried to spark the same reaction in her next three dance partners. She couldn’t quite bring herself to look directly in Lord Greensmere’s eyes, and the other two gentlemen kept asking her about the splendid weather or how she liked London no matter what other topics she tried to broach thereafter. They smiled politely at her. They were genial. They were in possession of good looks. None were avid readers. None cared for Homer or Heraclitus. None of them made her heart race or her blood pound.

By the time she again returned to Lady Susan, she was thoroughly flummoxed. “I think I’m in trouble.”

Upon the explanation, Lady Susan fixed her with a sympathetic, knowing look. “Indeed it sounds like a young woman falling in love.”

Charlotte looked about them, but it seemed they were alone enough to speak so freely; the next set had started, and only a handful of wallflowers remained. “But I can’t fall in love with _him_.”

“Whyever not?”

“It’s complicated,” she said, wondering how best to lay out the obstacles. He was Georgiana’s guardian, for one; and while the frost surrounding their relationship seemed to be thawing day by day, Charlotte knew it would pierce her friend’s heart to know she’d fallen for Mr. Parker. Georgiana had few friends and less privacy. She would surely view any courtship between them as a betrayal on both sides, and a muddying of confidences. “As you know, Miss Lambe is a dear friend, and I’m afraid -- well. I do not wish to be made to choose a side, if I ever must.”

“You could ask Miss Lambe for her thoughts on the matter,” said Lady Susan. “Though perhaps it is best to let the river run its course. I have strong suspicions otherwise, but the match may not play out.”

It was sound advice, Charlotte decided. Mr. Parker was a worldly gentleman, and she hardly knew him well enough to envision herself walking down the aisle to meet him -- and especially not at the expense of a friendship. “You’re right. There is all the chance he’s singularly unaffected, and in that case, I shan’t have to worry about hurting any feelings but my own.”

The look she received was dubious and perhaps a touch exasperated, but the countess made no further comment. 

They took seats, as Charlotte had no further promise of dance partners, which suited her well enough. Her new slippers pinched the toes ever so slightly.

At the end of the next set, Georgiana reappeared. “Charlotte! -- oh, good evening again, Lady Susan.”

“Miss Lambe,” Lady Susan replied. Perhaps sensing the need for a private moment between friends, she said, “I see some acquaintances desperately beseeching my presence, and so I will leave you young ladies to it.”

With that, she stood and floated away.

“What happened?” asked Charlotte as Georgiana took the free chair with a shaky breath. As quickly as Lady Susan had, she’d ascertained her friend was agitated or upset in some way.

“Nothing good.” Georgiana looked over her shoulder into the crowd. “Let us find a private place.”

“And Miss Denham?”

Georgiana looked even more troubled now. “I suppose we should.”

They did. 

Miss Denham had come to the ball with Lady Denham -- who Charlotte had met only once and, in the short span, was insulted twice -- and was more than happy for a reason to escape. 

The ducal manse was tremendously large, but the revelry was kept to the main areas, and finding a spot for the three of them to confer wasn’t as difficult as one might imagine. The room they found could be called such because it had four walls, a door and a ceiling, but it was large enough to enjoy two lit grates on either end.

“I’ve never been in a library this big,” Charlotte said.

Both Miss Denham and Georgiana had taken seats on the couches by the closest fireplace, but she still circled the room. Shelves upon shelves were lined with more books than she could possibly count. 

“This isn’t the main,” said Miss Denham, looking about. “I believe Lord Peregrin intended on fielding a book lending subscription from his personal titles this year.”

Georgiana groaned. “I cannot escape that infernal man!”

Both Miss Denham and Charlotte exchanged glances.

Georgiana took a deep breath. “Tonight has been--” Her voice trembled. “Tonight has been awful. Remember that tradesman I told you both about ages ago? Mr. Cummings? As soon as I was alone, he set upon me like a dog on a bone and made all these vile inferences to whisking me away to France and nearly grabbed me in front of all and sundry. As if he _actually_ has a terrace house in Paris, ha!”

Georgiana proceeded to recount the story of Lord Peregrin’s rescue, but, more worryingly, Mr. Cummings’ sudden attachment to her. 

Mr. Cummings’ nature was known to Charlotte, as he had once approached her, but no harm had come as he’d departed just as quickly upon discovering her unappealing dowery. The way ahead was entirely clear. “Georgiana, you _must_ tell Mr. Parker. He will protect you.”

“I know, I _know_ ,” she said, but the wetness in her eyes was evident, and so both Charlotte and Miss Denham came to sit on either side of her. 

While Miss Denham offered use of a delicate handkerchief, Charlotte placed her arms around her friend. Quiet sobs pierced the quiet office, and it went on like that for a time. Charlotte sent Miss Denham a worried look over Georgiana’s head, but there was naught to be done but let the tears flow and give comfort where it was needed.

When the worst of it abated, and Charlotte’s heart thoroughly torn apart to see the pain of her friend, she said, “Tell us what’s going on. No matter what it is, we can help you.”

“No, you can’t. There is nothing to _fix._ Miss Denham was right,” she replied miserably. “My money makes me a target to the lowest of men wanting to rise above, but the color of my skin makes me undesirable to those who would otherwise fit my station.”

“That is not true!” Charlotte cried. In a way, she understood; but in the same thought, knew she never truly could. Just as she was from the country, she was also a gentleman’s daughter. She could therefore marry up -- with a scandal attached, of course -- but the tender feelings of Society could be smoothed over in time. In the eyes of those so prejudiced, their thoughts on Georgiana would not change. She thought then of her comment to Mr. Parker on such an idea, and felt very foolish now for it.

“It _is_ ,” Georgiana replied. “By the blood of my father, I _belong_ here. But it doesn’t feel like it. Not at all. This Mr. Cummings thinks he has the right to approach me any which way, and-- and then I overheard--”

Miss Denham leaned in, eyebrows drawn together. “What did you overhear?”

A long, tense silence stretched out.

“I overheard Lady Pandora beseeching a gentleman to ruin me,” came her faint whisper. “After the dance, I went to the terrace for solitude and fresh air, and-- I stumbled upon their tryst. No doubt Pandora believes herself to be the queen of manipulation, weaving an asinine tale that bringing me ruin would prove him worthy of her hand.”

Georgiana recited the conversation between Lady Pandora and the gentleman quickly, and she was met with silence at its shocking conclusion.

“And _who_ was this gentleman?” asked Miss Denham, after some time. “You must have recognized him.”

“I cannot say,” said Georgiana miserably.

Charlotte’s stomach knotted together. “While I’m sure we all appreciate your delicacy in the matter--”

“Even if Lady Pandora deserves none of it,” Miss Denham sniffed.

“We promise to maintain steadfast in your confidence, and to tell _no one else_ ,” she finished, though all emphasis was directed purely to Miss Denham, whose dislike of Lady Pandora was quite well known among them all.

“It is not Lady Pandora’s virtue I am concerned with,” said Georgiana wryly. 

“Then name the rake and be done with it,” said Miss Denham.

“I can promise you nothing good will come from my honesty.”

“And the better for it.”

“If you insist.” Georgiana wrung her handkerchief for a minute or two. “It brings me absolutely no joy to say this, but the accomplice in this story is… well, he is… a familial adjacent…

“Surely it was not Mr. Parker!” said Charlotte, though he could not have been the suspect as she herself was his alibi. 

But the only other male family member among them was-- 

Miss Denham was already on her feet, a look of stricken horror on her face. “You can’t possibly mean to imply…”

Charlotte bit back her gasp as the realization hit her like an arrow; why Georgiana had been reluctant to include Miss Denham in these private talks.

Georgiana leapt up then, and Charlotte came to her feet, too.

“I saw him and heard him, Miss Denham,” said Georgiana, her tone firm yet sympathetic. “I’m sorry to say it was your step-brother, but it _was_ him. I will admit he did not go brainlessly forward with the scheme, but not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he fears Mr. Parker’s retaliation. What’s more, I firmly believe he has not persuaded Pandora away from chasing my ruination.”

Charlotte watched as Miss Denham’s horror morphed into an icy reserve, even as it was clear hot tears trembled to fall from her lashes. Beyond her aunt, Charlotte knew Sir Edward was the only close relation Miss Denham had left; it could only be a shock to hear he’d been cavorting with the proverbial enemy, and conspiring to ruin a young lady for no other benefit than causing pain.

“You must have misheard,” said Miss Denham, finally. “Neither of you know Edward like I do. I will admit he loves his flirtations, but what you speak of is unspeakably... vulgar. And horrid. He knows you are a friend to me.”

“But it happened." Though Georgiana’s conviction remained firm, she reached out to hold both of Miss Denham’s hands in a kind grip. “And… I think I understand why this hurts you so.”

A tear slipped down Miss Denham’s cheek and she gave one tremulous sob, “I can’t, I can’t listen to this.”

With that, she withdrew her hands, picked up her skirts, and made a hasty retreat. 

Charlotte made to follow, but Georgiana shook her head.

“I believe it’s best I go alone, Charlotte,” she said, a determined tilt to her mouth. “Forgive me, but Miss Denham and I need a frank talk right now.”

“Yes, of course; go,” she said, and Georgiana did without hesitation.

Now alone, Charlotte sunk down onto the couch with a trembling sigh. 

Volatile emotions, conspiracies of ruination, friends in a dubious row, and now a terrible secret. She felt like a side character in a terrible gothic novel. London was proving itself to be quite exhausting and, not for the first time, she was overcome with homesickness for Willingden’s gentler tempo.

-

For Sidney Parker, the night wore on. 

Where he would normally have retired to the men’s parlor for a smoke or harder drink and easier talk, he remained on the edges of the ball room; he could not deny what kept him rooted in place, and that she stood across the room and, occasionally, danced with another gentleman.

It had been a very long time since Sidney had felt the cold stab of jealousy, but there it was.

“You’re staring,” said Babington, who’d recently come away from his second dance with Miss Denham with altogether too much pep in his step.

“I’m mingling,” he replied.

“With the potted ferns?”

“Better conversationalists than my current partner.”

“Ah, a stinging barb.” Babington clapped a hand to Sidney’s shoulder. “You should approach the young lady once more before the night is through.”

As per usual, Babington proved to be far too observant.

“We’ve danced already,” said Sidney. “Twice would speak too loudly.”

“There is such a thing as talking _sans_ dancing.”

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re only lecturing me because you’ve had recent success,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I have not yet decided what my intentions are and therefore do not wish to give false hope.”

“Y’gads, you’ve had two conversations with the girl. By all accounts, she is level-headed and will not take your attentions to mean anything beyond -- as Auntie H would say -- a seed of friendship.”

“A seed meant to blossom into a beautiful flower of love, no doubt,” he said sardonically. He could almost imagine Babington as a young lordling receiving such advice. In this way, love among the peerage was treated much like a fairytale. “You know me, Babs; I am not marriage-minded.”

Before he could offer further derisive comments, however, he saw Georgiana approach Miss Heywood with speed; Lady Susan departed their company quickly thereafter, and the two young ladies went to collect Miss Denham. An instinct -- born from his own mischievous youth -- told him they were up to something. Soon enough he was proven correct as they walked calmly towards a side door, opened it, and slipped away.

Cursing Lambe for the umpteenth time and the duty he’d been saddled with, he excused himself from Babington and skirted around the room. He was waylaid by several gentlemen of his acquaintance, and he was obliged to engage in smalltalk, though he might have agreed to anything for all the attention he’d been giving the conversations.

By the time he stepped through the door where his ward and her friends had disappeared into, the hallway was empty.

Where anger had pooled in his gut as he’d made chase in Hyde Park, it was fear that settled on him now. Three ladies galavanting unchaperoned in public was a trifle compared to being caught in a closed room with a man... and there were enough rogues in attendance tonight that the possibility was real enough. Why couldn’t Georgiana -- or Miss Heywood, or Miss Denham -- seem to understand that? 

Skulking about in a duke’s home wasn’t, strictly speaking, good form, but he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen them. Alerting Lady Susan and Mrs. Griffiths would have been the sensible thing to do, but he hadn’t seen either woman on his way, and he didn’t want to lose time finding them in the crush.

He proceeded onward. 

He was not wholly ignorant to the duke’s not-so-humble abode; nevertheless, the hallways stretched on, and he was loath to open any old door for fear of stumbling on someone else’s scandal in pursuit of preventing them.

The search was cut short as he turned a corner and heard the faint sounds of female voices.

It would serve Georgiana right for him to burst in unannounced, but he took a pause at the door. They were speaking too softly for him to properly hear all which was said, but the longer he eavesdropped, the more incorrect it felt to intrude.

The choice to stay his righteous fury was unlike him, he thought; and, perhaps, a sign that he _could_ take Georgiana’s wants and feelings into consideration. To the point: why had she snuck off with her friends for a private word?

Miss Denham suddenly burst from the room. Though Sidney there stood by the doorway, the young lady seemed to be in mild hysterics and paid him no mind as she flitted by. He drew back just in time to see Georgiana hasten out as well, chasing her friend down the hallway with impressive speed.

So nonplussed was he that by the time he remembered young ladies did not _run_ nor dabble in shows of public tears, they had already disappeared around the corner; thankfully, they went in the direction of the ball.

That left him, of course, to wait for Miss Heywood’s sobbing departure.

Exactly three minutes ticked by on his pocket watch before worry settled on him as Miss Heywood neither ran nor sobbed her way past him. Obviously -- _obviously_ \-- neither Miss Denham nor Georgiana would leave their friend if she were in trouble, but worry niggled at the back of him neck; and, despite literally coming to rescue young ladies from rogues and roués trapping them indoors, he was overcome with the need to at least verify Miss Heywood hadn’t indeed collapsed.

Miss Heywood was, as far as he could see, in good health when he stepped inside. 

The fact, however, did not remain true for long.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence, and the large tome the young lady was perusing tumbled from her fingers and landed, quite heavily, atop her slippered foot. 

She cried out in pain and he rushed forward to offer his assistance.

“Mr. Parker!” she said through gritted teeth and holding onto his hand with remarkable strength. “I did not expect to see you.”

“Indeed not or else you may have held your grip,” he said severely, which earned him a grimace in response. “Come now, let’s get you seated.”

He led Miss Heywood to a nearby chair. With a hiss of pain, she lowered herself into the cushions.

“I will fetch help,” he said, but she gasped out a pained, “No!”

“As long as the foot is still attached, I think I shall survive it,” she said to his startled look. “I do not want to cause any more fuss than I have already.”

Her attempt at humor in the face of her pain unsettled something in him, as did the fresh tears in her eyes. Talking on body parts, as a general rule, wasn’t entirely proper; but, he remembered with some fondness, that she had already threatened to and accomplished trodding on his toes earlier in the night, and no real harm had come of it then. “Would you like me to take a look?”

It seemed his attempt at humor sailed over her head -- or perhaps she was in quite a bit more pain than he’d realized -- as she bit her lip and said, “If only to confirm it hasn’t been utterly flattened by Shakespeare’s Collected Works.”

Perhaps in a day or a decade, Sidney would be able to look back and understand why he hadn’t simply departed the room for a doctor. However, in the present, it felt like the gentlemanly course of action to proceed with the help he’d already offered, jest or no.

He knelt down, and as soon as his knee touched the carpeted floor, he knew he’d made a grievous error, but there was nothing more to do but proceed with the examination and push aside the thought of what position he was in, and with whom he was with. Perhaps the brandy he’d been imbibing all night had quite gone to his head, but he took a gentle hold of her neat ankle instead of running clear from the room, and he drew her appendage forward for inspection.

A sizable lump had already formed atop the delicate curve of her foot, but he suspected women weren’t so delicate as to break bones from a mere collision of books and flesh. He’d wager she would be sore for a few days, but hardly more than that.

“We may need to amputate,” he said gravely, and almost earned a kick to the head for how quickly Miss Heywood yanked her foot away with a choked-off laugh.

This was, of course, how they were found. From the outsider's perspective: Sidney with his hand nearly up Miss Heywood’s skirts, and her shrinking away from his touch with a shriek.

As far as situations went, Sidney had indeed been in worse ones, but not by much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tropes and cliches intensify*
> 
> 6 chapters in and we're finally getting to my outlined conflict :') obviously i won't have this wrapped up in 4 more chapters, but. we'll see.


	7. The Scoundrel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a huge shoutout to Emily for helping me beta this chapter! Without her help, it might have never seen the light of day. <3
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who is reading! I hope you enjoy this one.

It was Sidney’s strong belief that every man, at some point or other, was forced to face the harsh truths of his character; the good, the bad, and all matter in between. 

Rarely, however, was a man made to acknowledge these veritable facts by a duke.

“Scoundrel!” cried the Duke of Kingston. His bejeweled finger pointed and trembled in the direction of the accused. “Blackguard!”

Sidney stood with a stunned calmness rarely seen except for men marching to their fate at the gallows, and turned to address the party that had stumbled upon him and Miss Heywood. No matter what he said, or how he explained it, there was no escaping the noose tightening rapidly around his neck.

Almost a decade had passed since he’d boarded the _Eugenia_ and sailed to the West Indies after being thrown over for Mr. Campion. The decision to embark on the voyage had been borne of drink and foolishness and heartache, and if Mr. Lambe hadn’t caught him during his great fall, Sidney had no doubt he would have been sent home to Tom and Mary in a casket or, more likely, buried in a paupers grave on the rolling hills of Antigua. Indeed it was on that lonely island where he’d decided Virgil was wrong, that love conquered nothing, and he would remain love-less and wife-less for the remainder of his days.

In the years that followed, he’d held strong to his convictions. Bachelorhood had come easily enough. Well-bred though he was, he hadn’t the heavy pursestrings to tempt pursuit by the ambitious mamas of the _beau monde_. With sweating labor and time, however, his coins had rolled in. By the time he’d reached the shores of Polite Society once more, remaining unattached became a perilous battle all eligible, wealthy gentlemen fought: carefully avoiding all manner of matron, clever chaperone, and matrimonial scheme.

Finally, it seemed, he would have to lay down his arms and concede, with bitter acceptance, to a fate that was all of his own doing.

The duke there stood: luminous, majestic, and furious. He was indeed a remarkable man, dressed head to foot in splendor best left to a time where men wore powdered wigs and buckled shoes. Somewhere, Sidney was sure, Beau Brummel was sweating and trembling to know his fashion decrees hadn’t yet settled on this house. Next to him stood Her Grace, equally splendid though far less ostentatious. She was arm-in-arm with a shocked Lord Babington, who just so happened to be her loving nephew.

“Wastrel!” the duke growled. “Your name, sir! Out with it!”

“Mr. Sidney Parker, Your Grace,” he replied evenly. He held still. A deferential bow in this heated moment could only be taken as mockery and he would prefer to escape the worst of ducal wrath. 

“And who is _she_?”

“Uncle,” Babington interrupted, gaze casting back and forth between the duke and Sidney in alarm, “I can personally attest to Mr. Parker’s good character and sense, and I am _sure_ we may find a reasonable explanation for this-- this--”

“Flagrant display of impropriety?” The duke was fairly bellowing now. “A young lady molested! In my own home, no less!”

“Indeed I was not!” cried the aforementioned young lady, who leapt to her feet... and promptly stumbled directly into Sidney’s arms.

Clearly, this further break of decorum was too much to bear. 

The duchess cried out. “Oh, her poor nerves! _My_ nerves!” 

The room erupted and chaos reigned. The duke discovered his sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy, laying accusatory blows upon Sidney’s character and the becursed ball as he went. Lord Babington ushered his aunt, who had begun to complain heavily of heart pangs and breathing problems, to the aptly named fainting couch.

“What have I done?” asked Miss Heywood, though it seemed the question was posed to herself vice anyone else. She looked up at Sidney, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “If I’d let you go--”

“None of that now,” he replied, pangs of his own battering at his conscience. He’d known better. He _knew_ better. He couldn’t allow her to shoulder any responsibility. Especially not for his choices, ill-begotten as they’d been. “All will be well.”

Her lips trembled, but still she did not succumb to hysterics. “You can’t possibly be sure of that.”

Looking down at her face, the sense that he’d never been surer before in his life sprung forward. 

Ever since Eliza had jilted him, his heart so bruised he’d sailed half-way around the world to lick his wounds, the idea of shackling himself to another was an appalling one. Not because he viewed women as evil or conniving -- though there were plenty in that category, just as there were men -- but because he was, simply put, afraid. Despite Georgiana’s vehement denials to the contrary, he had a heart. When he cared, he did so deeply. When he was hurt, he felt it immensely. A gruff demeanor had thus guarded him. So few had dared to pierce the armor. Fewer still had managed to dismantle enough of the wall he’d built to peek inside. Miss Heywood, in a short span and with little effort, had revived the tender embers of affection he’d long thought lost to the sea.

Indeed he would have preferred to come to the conclusion in his own time, and in his own way; but, just as his spontaneity propelled him onward, a clobbering from the universe itself could do just as well. Matches had been made on less sure footing and worse terms.

Bedlam continued on for nearly a quarter hour. Eventually, the sensitivities of Their Graces were smoothed over by their doting nephew, but the damage had been done. Perhaps the pair could have been persuaded to hold the secret if they’d merely come across Mr. Parker and Miss Heywood standing six feet apart, but the kneeling -- and the proximity in which the gentleman did it -- was altogether too much. Considering the kick-ups their heir caused every turn of the season, their protests erred on the side of an absurd parody, but neither Babington nor Sidney had the means with which to dissuade them from upholding what honor demanded.

Thus, Lady Susan was summoned.

Certain he was soon to be skewered upon a pike of righteousness, Sidney said his prayers.

“I’ve been informed sal volatile is in order,” she declared upon her arrival. Her cool gaze swept over Sidney like he was simply another piece of furniture which was, admittedly, much worse. “To whom shall I administer the first dose?”

The fever of impending scandal flared once more and Lady Susan descended upon her quarry.

-

Yet again Charlotte feverishly wished for the calm, rote life of Willingden. If she were home, she would not have found herself deeply enraptured by Lord Peregrin’s personal collection of books. If she hadn’t been so fascinated, she would have known Mr. Parker had stood behind her without the need of him announcing himself by means of a cleared throat. And if he hadn’t startled her, Shakespeare’s dratted _Collected Works_ would have remained in hand, her instep wouldn’t be throbbing, and she would have had enough wits about her to not ask a gentleman to tend to her alone. Would, would, would. But there was no use in wringing her nerves into a tangle over what might have been. It had happened. It _was_. Charlotte only wished she knew _why_.

Like all gently-bred ladies, she had been raised to be careful and covetous of her virtue. The way Willingden’s knowing matrons spoke sometimes made it seem as if brigands and libertines waited around every dark corner, diabolically plotting the fall and ruination of all the young maidens. No such man had ever snatched her up, but she watched more than one friend fall into holy matrimony after a not-so-secret kiss behind the assembly hall. No young man had ever made her so befuddled. She’d never understood how deeply stupid the desire to steal a secret moment could make a person. Until now. 

She blamed her anomalous conduct on the after-effects of the waltz. The lingering thrall of Mr. Parker’s smile and the low timbre of his voice as he’d rushed to render her aid. Reconciling the man who delivered a scathing set-down at their first meeting with the man who tenderly minded her ankle must have thrown her brain for a loop. There was no other explanation for it. Not that any sort of reasoning would free them from this trap. It did not take Lady Susan’s presence, nor the flicker of disappointment in her eyes, to tell Charlotte that her poor choices would lead both her and Mr. Parker to the altar, just as it had the girls in her village.

“Heavens,” the duchess murmured weakly. A handkerchief was pressed to her mouth for but a moment before she drew it away to say more strongly, “You are remarkably resilient, my dear. Incredible fortitude. Why, any young lady in your place would have succumbed to a swoon!”

Charlotte now sat with Lady Susan and the duchess. In a farcical separation of the sexes, the gentleman had retired to a separate office to hold a conversation much the same as the one the women had now -- though there was strong reason to believe their talks were far less hostile.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied, though there was no doubting the rude implication behind the duchess’ comment. Focusing on the pain in her foot, she resigned to remain fully composed no matter what else was said.

“Swooning is dreadfully tedious,” Lady Susan said breezily. “One is always in need of a soft place to land and therefore one would find herself never stepping a single slippered foot outside. Besides, Miss Heywood does not suffer from delicate nerves when there is naught need of them."

“Not in--?” Eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the duchess’ lips twitched up into a placating smile. “Of course you would think so, Lady Susan. We did not apprise you fully to the extent of matters.”

Lady Susan’s smile in return was equally docile. “I am not in need of edification, Your Grace. I am fully aware of Miss Heywood’s nature and am absolutely certain that _whatever_ was seen, explained in the proper context, would assuage all thought of impropriety.”

So regulated was Charlotte’s comportment presently that she was sure the only outward show of her shock was a slight tightened of her folded fingers. It didn’t seem possible, but it seemed Lady Susan was not only determined to defend her from the duchess’ cutting remarks but from the consequences of her actions as well.

The duchess tutted. “It is my understanding certain… relaxations… of modesty are afforded to those in your circle, but surely even _you_ can admit a young lady and a gentleman so far away from the revelry cannot possibly be held wholly innocent.”

“Indeed I must if the facts of the case support such a verdict.”

“I see. Well, then I must stand even more firmly in my convictions. Excuse me, Lady Susan,” she said, and hardly afforded Charlotte a glance before she rose from the fainting couch as if she hadn’t required great assistance settling herself there. She departed to the side office.

Now alone, Lady Susan came quickly to Charlotte’s side. “Her Grace is a prickly pear indeed. I hope you are not overly offended by our jabs.”

“I cannot be. I am embarrassed to admit Their Graces and Lord Babington indeed have cause to hold my feet to the fire,” she said, and explained in detail exactly how she’d found herself in such a predicament.

“Not even a kiss?” Lady Susan sat back. “By Jupiter, the way the footman prevailed upon me to hurry, I had assumed you and your beau had been found _in flagrante delicto_.”

Charlotte’s cheeks burned for more than one reason; the implication of Mr. Parker being her beau, as well as the easy way Lady Susan referenced certain acts. Another wave of abject misery washed over her. Once more, she had settled herself in the middle of a scandal. Once more, she had imperiled more than her own reputation. At least this time she did not have to explain the cause and effect in the breakfast parlor. “You are far too kind,” she said. “You must be furious with me.”

“Furious? Dear girl, I could not be further from,” she said. “Indeed I wish we could have resolved the matter of Mr. Parker in due course, but he is a superb match. Well-regarded, well-bred, and _wealthy._ And there is all the reason to believe we shall avoid a nine days’ wonder.”

“But Her Grace…” 

“Is truly not as vicious as she makes herself out to be. She is a lady of discretion, if direct. A duchess can afford to be whatever she chooses, after all. The problem lies here in the current company, you see. Lord Babington is her nephew and, by all accounts, she sees him as one would a son. She would thus view any taint to his character as the greatest affront.”

“But-- Lord Peregrin is-- I thought…”

“Indeed the heir is quite the rascal.” Lady Susan’s smile turned sad. “But Lord Babington’s late mother was the beloved sister, and, I suppose, Lady Helene is all the more protective of him because of it.”

Charlotte inclined her head. Thinking back to the moment she and Mr. Parker had been caught, she suddenly understood. Despite the theatrical way Their Graces had acted, there lacked a true heat. The duke had hemmed and hawed, but he’d found drink instead of demanding immediate recompense. The duchess had fluttered to the couch, but now it seemed her purpose had been to size up her opposition and ensure Lord Babingon would not come to harm. “You never intended to remove my consequences then,” she said.

“If I could, please know I would,” said Lady Susan. “We women rarely get a choice, do we? Why, if we were in France no one would have batted an eye. Simply trotted on by, I’m sure of it.… Of course, there is the chance Mr. Parker may refuse to do his duty.”

“He wouldn’t. He won’t.” She swallowed thickly. Tears burned her nose. What would she tell Georgiana? Surely she would now believe her guardian to be another villain-in-wait; or, worse yet, that Charlotte as the next great colluder. Or perhaps she would blame herself for leaving Charlotte by herself. It was all so terrible. She could only hope for easy forgiveness. “Oh, I wish he would have thought of Miss Lambe before he-- he didn’t leave! I wish I would have heeded his advice for a doctor. I was so vexed at hurting myself in such a silly fashion I couldn’t bear another witness to it…”

Lady Susan generously did not comment further on Charlotte’s bad decision. Instead, she turned curious: “Now that you mention Miss Lambe, it crosses my mind that Mr. Parker being exactly where you were as… odd. In the same vein, what were _you_ doing here by yourself?”

"I cannot account for Mr. Parker, however--" Charlotte gasped and barely restrained herself from slapping her forehead. It seemed she’d lost her mind several leagues back and would never recover it. She closed her eyes for a moment, recalling revelations decidedly more shocking than her own troubles. “I can’t believe I almost forgot,” she said, and recounted the secret meeting between Sir Edward and Lady Pandora.

“Melodrama abounds,” said Lady Susan. “We must keep our wits about us to nip any insidious plot that arises in the bud. I daresay Miss Lambe has more friends in her corner than Edward Denham and Pandora have combined… though I now worry about Miss Denham’s future.”

Charlotte nodded. The thought had occurred to her as well. “Unless he is disowned by Lady Denham, then there is little hope she would escape unscathed if he were to come under proper scrutiny.”

“The easiest way to circumvent directly attacking Georgiana would be to attack her friends.” She frowned. “I wonder if you would have been his next target. You three ladies are rather attached at the hip these days.”

“Sir Edward has never paid me any mind… but the thought he might have turned his _charm_ onto me and for such nefarious purposes chills me to the bone.”

“Then let us console ourselves with the promised heat of future matrimony.”

Surely marriage was the secret which allowed Lady Susan to say such wicked things and not blush for Charlotte’s cheeks burned at hearing them.

-

While the women conferred outside, the gentlemen had resolved the issue with a bit of shouting, grunting, and calls upon prevailing honor. In less than five minutes’ time, the deed was done.

Babington offered two-fingers’ worth of brandy to Sidney afterward. As poorly done as it was, he slammed the drink back and held out for another dose. Ever the gentlemen, Babington obliged, though not without a mutinous narrowing of the eyes to display his deep displeasure. 

They had been left alone for the time being while the duke conferred with his steward in yet another private office; a solicitor would need to be called on the morrow, and an express post to Mr. Heywood sent. Despite the jolly occasion of the ball, it seemed the Duke and Duchess of Kingston did not let business matters lie idle.

“Go on,” he said, throat burning. “I know you are desperate to admonish me.”

“Someone ought to. Naught an hour has passed since you told me you weren’t marriage-minded, and yet you run head-long into the oldest trick in the book,” he said. “I’d suggested you talk to the young lady. To call on her tomorrow. I know how you love to be contrary, but to this extent?”

“I beg you not to imply my soon-to-be intended tricked me into anything,” he said, though his attempt at a riposte was weak to his own ears. “Believe me, I haven’t a clue what came over me. One moment I was rushing after Miss Lambe to prevent such trappings, and in the next scene, I was the villain.”

“If you’d’ve _listened_ to me, you wouldn’t have been so overcome as to stick your hand up a skirt. God forbid you dance with her twice, eh?”

“Go to the devil,” he said without heat, and placed his now empty glass forward to be refilled yet again.

Babington poured. “At least you will do right by the girl.”

“I haven’t a choice and you well know it. She’s a gentleman’s daughter. If nothing else, I can’t afford to shame myself in such a way, even if your aunt and uncle weren’t calling for a piece of justice to be done.”

Beyond his own duty and honor, he had to contend with those of everyone else attached to him like a tether. Undoubtedly his guardianship of Georgiana would come into question; scandal would tarnish Tom’s efforts with Sanditon; his business ventures would suffer. He hadn’t the idle means with which to weather the storm like some gentlemen with allowances from their sires could. He had too much at stake. Too much to lose. Why in the bloody hell hadn’t he remembered that when he’d rushed toward Miss Heywood like a fool?

“You could have done worse, you know,” Babington said. “Her looks are agreeable and she is pleasant company. Worst yet, I suspect you like her.”

“My feelings are of little consequence,” he said. “Behind those doors, I can only imagine the browbeating the poor chit is receiving from the ladyships. You know how women always bear the brunt of the matter. By now she surely resents me. And if she doesn’t, she’s not half as intelligent as I believe her to be.”

A time later, the duchess joined them in the private room. The duke had not yet returned, but it seemed Her Grace was fully capable of doling out the decree without him. She proceeded to lay out, in no uncertain terms, what she expected to come.

“You will ask tonight and she will accept,” she said firmly. “Unless Miss Heywood’s father can provide sufficient objections to the match, I expect a formal engagement announcement will follow -- with a dinner party to celebrate, if you wish to be kind.”

Logistical quibbles such as when and where the wedding would take place would come in time, Sidney was sure, and he had no doubt the duchess and Lady Susan would soon negotiate over these facts. He felt like a young man again, and not a fully grown gentleman of import.

He and Babington were dismissed, and Lady Susan took their place.

From here, there was little else to be done but approach Miss Heywood. He expected her to turn her nose up at him, but she met him with a small, nervous smile. Only a touch of uncertainty lingered in her expression, but he was sure that was to be expected when one’s future hung in the great, delicate balance of Polite Society. How he had ever called into question her character after his own poor showing tonight, he would never know, and shame thus held his tongue beyond the obligatory greeting.

“Worry not, Miss Heywood,” said Babington. “Lady Susan is a formidable champion.”

“And who fights for Mr. Parker?” she asked.

Babington cut Sidney a surprised glance before settling a more affable one on Miss Heywood. “I suppose I stand as his woe-begotten defender. I’ve enough experience in the post to tell you you have nothing to fear. As long as I’ve known him, Parker’s been getting into and out of scrapes, tussles and knockdowns all in one piece.”

“Parker is stood right here,” said Sidney begrudgingly.

“And truth be told,” Babington continued on as if Sidney hadn’t spoken, “as loudly and vigorously as my dearest uncle barks, his bite is far less severe. I believe the normal… restitutions will be in order.”

“Well, then. If it’s only the usual punishment.” Miss Heywood’s sigh was entirely self-deprecating. “I shan’t worry too much.”

Not a minute later, Babington was called away.

By design -- and not a clever one at that -- this removal gave Sidney a private moment with Miss Heywood. He knew there was yet much to discuss, letters to write, a father to beseech and contracts to draw up, but it was clear now was the time allotted to do his duty and ask.

He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt much too dry. “How fares the instep?”

“Throbbing, but the pain is quite bearable now,” she replied. “The initial hurt was quite surprising. For a moment, I’d truly believed you; that we’d need to find a surgeon and--” She made a sawing motion.

“Good God,” he said, aghast. “Shakespeare couldn’t possibly be so heavy.”

“I hadn’t had the pleasure.”

He rolled his eyes. “Even so printed _Collected Works_ , ‘All’s Well That Ends Well’ to ‘Winter’s Tale’, and however many sonnets--”

“--One-hundred and fifty-four--”

“I doubt there would be cause to summon the butcher.”

“Indeed I am not so delicate,” she admitted, “to be parted foot from ankle.”

There was a moment of good humor between them, and Sidney realized he was mooning down at her as she mooned up at him, all in view of Her Graces, Her Ladyship, and Babington, who he was sure all remained dutifully away from the cracked-open door and were not at all spying upon them.

In an unintentional parody of his earlier action, he again kneeled before her.

Twice he had made the mistake of thinking her plain. He’d been a fool. Firelight danced across her face, her coiffure. She was arresting. Beautiful. Full lips meant for laughter and kissing; strong eyebrows over expressive brown eyes; a cleft in her chin he was beginning to consider quite dainty rounded out a smart jaw. It felt wrong to examine her so closely, and yet he couldn’t draw away from doing it. An unnamed need to see her cheeks flush tugged at him. He wanted to vex her, charm her; to know she regarded him in a similar fashion as he did her.

“Miss Heywood,” he began. His hands began to sweat. Ten years ago, he had asked Eliza to make him the happiest of men. Not long after, she had ripped his heart clear from his chest and left him to the vultures. As silly as it might have seemed, the fact that Miss Heywood hardly had a real choice in choosing him did not soothe his fraying nerves. He hesitated, dearly wishing for a truly private moment yet understanding why it could not be given, and so plowed on: “Surely you understand the cause of all this calamity, and the ramifications of _my_ actions on us both. It is only… correct… that we conclude this act to its natural end and that I ask you to marry me.”

Thus far, Sidney had been operating under the notion that they were two people like-minded and understanding of what was expected of them. Miss Heywood’s wide eyes quickly liberated him from this idea. His was not a horribly romantic speech, he knew, but he felt saccharine words would have rung false. Perhaps she had expected something more tender -- or perhaps she had not expected him to ask at all. Silence stretched out between them, and he saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“You are opposed,” he said. A dark despair began to settle over him. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, but any motion for him to stand -- and flee -- was forestalled by Miss Heywood reaching for his hand. She squeezed it desperately. A great wave of relief crashed against him.

“I am not, sir,” she said, voice shaking. “I will be your wife.”

Her eyes glimmered and seeing her so ill-at-ease struck the wild, romantic chord inside of him he’d long ago buried. With that, an unintentional truth fell from his lips unbidden: “There was all the reason I would have found myself on a bent knee before you at Season’s end. I fear I will spend the rest of my life begging forgiveness for causing our current circumstances, even if I cannot bring myself to dislike them.”

“Then I must disabuse you of the idea that you are wholly at fault,” she replied, “and tell you I had every hope you would ask. Eventually.”

“Tomorrow will be a hectic day,” he warned her. “I will write to your father, as well as Lady Susan, with all discretion. I am led to believe Mr. Heywood won’t have any objections.”

Finally, a hint of the teasing sparkle returned to her eyes. “Having never met you, I am sure he will not. However, knowing his nature in full and yours but a little, it is best his blessing comes in a sea of ink,” she said. A moment later her certainty faded. “Will we have time to… to know one another before we are--”

A loud harrumph cut through her question. No doubt the Duke of Kingston had returned from business-doing and was now impatiently waiting to be released to make merry.

“I will endeavor to make it so,” said Sidney quietly, and gave Miss Heywood an encouraging smile he didn’t himself quite feel. It seemed rapidity was on the docket for Their Graces and there was all the chance they’d be expected to wed after the banns were read.

They rose together and accepted lukewarm congratulations from their audience. With that, it was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, i literally just jointed the twitter 'verse since apparently that's where all the cool kids talk about sanditon?
> 
> i'm @dansunedisco if you want to, like, slide into my DMs?


	8. Two Gifts, Two Households

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to Emily without whom this would be a much hotter mess than it is. <3
> 
> A million thanks also to all who are along for the ride. Thank you for reading and all your incredible responses. Hopefully you dig this one, too! :)

> _Dearest Alison,_
> 
> _I will cut to the quick. Undoubtedly you’ve already heard the news via the express post Lady Susan sent Papa this morning and thus this letter will not catch you unawares, but I am to be a married woman. Indeed I can hardly myself believe the news. I know you wanted a viscount for yourself and a duke for me, but I undershot terribly and collected one of the wealthiest gentleman in the beau monde instead. I hope you are not too sorely disappointed in my choice._
> 
> _His name is Mr. Sidney Parker_

A droplet of ink trembled on the tip of the quil and she quickly struck it against the blotter. 

Normally, composing a letter to Alison flowed as easy as talking, but it was exceedingly difficult to collect her thoughts and put it to paper. She wanted to display a happy front and provide answers to the questions her sister would certainly ask about her intended, but the fact remained that she knew very little of him. Other than what Georgiana had told her -- which, in truth, was not all wholly flattering -- and feelings gleaned from their few conversations, Mr. Sidney Parker was an enigma. 

Biting her lip, she took up quill once more, adding a perfunctory period to the previously unfinished sentence. She continued on:

> _I know you are overflowing with questions about Mr. Parker and so I will leave it to you to respond with them so that I may answer all at once, otherwise I fear I will miss one in my presumption and will never hear the end of it from you._
> 
> _How are you et. al? I feel as if I’ve been gone for a year instead of a month…_

After a rambling description of the ducal manse and the ball which she hoped would satisfy Alison’s curious nature, she finished the letter off with all her love, scattered a handful of sand across the paper, and carefully folded the squares. Perhaps by the time Alison’s response came, she would have satisfactory means with which to answer all her questions.

It was another early morning in Worcester Hall. This time, she hadn’t waited for her maid to arrive to light the grate. She knew she’d never hear the end of it -- Anna could not bear any of Charlotte’s protests that basic household chores were not foreign to her -- but she’d wanted the room warm and toasty to write. She didn’t, however, dare go in search of water or a basin to complete her morning ablutions, but she did wish she had something else to occupy her mind.

Her current state could, in a word, perhaps be best described as frazzled.

After Mr. Parker had asked for her hand, Lady Susan had declared the night complete and whisked her away. She hadn’t had a moment to find either Georgiana or Miss Denham to discover the result of their conversation, or tell them of the absurd turn in her night. Another anxiety was the lingering threat of Sir Edward and Lady Pandora’s schemes, as well as Mr. Cummings’ ill attention. As far as she knew, Mr. Parker remained unaware of everything and all. Indeed there was no saying if Georgiana had heeded her advice to seek his aid, or even if she planned to do so.

Her stomach swam with worry. Worst of it all was that she no longer knew where she stood. As both Georgiana’s friend and now Mr. Parker’s betrothed, her loyalties were keenly split. If Georgiana wanted to handle her dilemmas herself, a part of Charlotte believed she should be afforded the opportunity to do so -- but not telling Mr. Parker would only earn her _his_ ire, and could lead to further ramifications for her friend. Or, blushing deeply at the thought, the detriment to marital bliss.

Either way, any interference on Charlotte’s part would surely be viewed as a treachery by one party. It was an impossible spot to be in, and from one which she did not yet know how to navigate. Unfortunately, no clear resolution presented itself. She could only hope Mr. Parker had taken care with announcing their engagement to Georgiana or, better yet, had thought to allow Charlotte herself to do the deed.

A time later, her maid Anna arrived who tutted as she changed the spent coals for fresh ones and helped Charlotte dress. Hooks were hooked and buttons were buttoned, and petticoats and layers of muslin were draped to give her the columnal silhouette currently _au courant._

“You look very lovely, miss,” Anna said, stepping back to admire her work.

Charlotte smiled. “Thank you, Anna -- you always know which dress is the ticket for the day.”

Just as quickly as she’d helped Charlotte dress, Anna directed her lady to sit on the stool before the vanity to begin the process of wrangling thick hair into a fashionable updo. The fact that she was able to wield both brushes and hot tools simultaneously while making idle talk showcased her skill: “I’d’ve chosen the blush muslin for you, miss, on account of that it brings out the peachy color in your cheeks -- but her ladyship says a _modiste_ is to arrive today, hence the simpler white.”

A modiste was news to Charlotte. So surprised was she that she turned her head sharply to better see Anna’s eyes in the glass, her ear narrowly escaping the wrath of scaldingly hot tongs.

“Bless me, please stay still, miss!” Anna exclaimed breathlessly. She held the tongs aloft. “I almost burnt your ear right off.”

“My apologies, Anna.”

“Sitting still will be enough for me, miss. I can’t have you apologizin’ now. T’ain’t proper.”

With a quiet sigh, Charlotte sat as requested. “You are sure about the modiste?”

“Yes’m. It’s all the talk downstairs,” she replied. Her eyes widened a fraction and she hastened on to explain, “Not that we’ve been gossiping behind your back, miss. Only that it’s been so long since Lady Susan’s had a guest like you -- that is, a young lady -- and even longer since we’ve had a proper dressmaker in Worcester Hall.”

“It’s for your trousseau,” Lady Susan later explained as they ate breakfast, “and I shall not hear any protestation from you, for it is a wedding gift.”

Charlotte did protest. Politely, of course, but vigorously. Yet again, Lady Susan’s kindness and understanding had eclipsed all measure and she could not idly accept.

And so of course it went that two hours later she was being pinned, poked and measured within an inch of her life. 

The modiste was a bespectacled woman a few inches shorter than Charlotte and at least forty years older. She introduced herself as Madame Lanchester, and she’d brought with her three harried assistants who fluttered here and there on silent command. They all gave Charlotte smiles and their happy tidings as they went about their business, but any further attempt at conversation was met with a sharp look over spectacles.

Which perhaps was well enough for Charlotte was soon drowned in a sea of ruffles, lace, and bows; indeed all manner of silk, muslin and cloth were draped across her body, and buttons of various sizes were held up for assessment against her eyes. Apparently it was fashionable to match lip color to flounces as well and she was obliged to scrub her mouth to satisfaction so as to ensure no rouge impeded artistic creativity.

Charlotte bore the treatment as well as she could but soon came to believe this was Lady Susan’s clever idea of punishment.

Thankfully the end came as quickly as it had begun. One moment the room was covered in a riot of colors and fabrics, and the next it was all wrapped up and carted out to leave the room as tidy as if had never been.

“My felicitations to the happy bride-to-be,” Madame Lanchester declared as the chaos was finally put to order. And with a slight adjustment of the spectacles atop her nose and a rustle of smart skirts, she and her three assistants departed Worcester Hall and disappeared into the thick of Mayfair to undoubtedly harass another hapless client.

Charlotte found Lady Susan in her drawing-room afterward, book in hand.

“I see you’ve survived the experience,” she said, giving Charlotte her trademark teasing smile.

“Barely,” she admitted with a small laugh, “and there is all the possibility a pin or needle is yet stuck somewhere. Oh, Lady Susan -- I _cannot_ possibly thank you enough…”

“You may thank me by remaining deliriously happy for all the rest of your life,” she said, “and, of course, by wearing Madame Lanchester’s designs when you are out-and-about. She is a very dear and old friend, and recently re-established in New Bond Street.”

“Oh?"

“Indeed, she was the _artiste_ behind my own ‘coming out’ attire. I’ve always said her innovation was the true reason Lord Worcester was caught all those years ago. Panniers in those days were rather hard to miss, of course. Two ladies in full regalia could barely pass abreast.”

Charlotte was too young to remember the sizable width panniers had expanded over the course of fashion’s history, but her mother still had several magazines wherein prints detailed such extravagant and voluminous styles. As much as she enjoyed a little ornamentation, she was quite content with the straight-cut style of the current day. “Then I will happily wear Madame Lanchester’s more simplified designs, and consider myself fortunate that we can walk side-by-side without issue.”

At that, the butler Jenkins appeared at the door; almost as if he’d been lying in wait for an opportune lull in conversation to make his entrance. He held a calling card in his gloved fingers. After waiting for Lady Susan’s subtle acknowledgment, he calmly announced, “A Mr. Sidney Parker is at the door, your ladyship.”

Charlotte’s stomach promptly plunged to her feet and her heart jumped up to join her throat.

Lady Susan, having nothing at all to fear from Mr. Parker’s sudden presence, brightened sharply. “Good man, of course he is! Please see him in, Jenkins.”

-

At the same time of Charlotte’s fitting, Mr. Sidney Parker was experiencing similar torture elsewhere, except his was in the form of enduring Babington’s enthusiastic ramblings on the matter of horseflesh. 

At far too early an hour, he’d been wrangled from his bed, thrown into respectable attire, and bundled into a coach bound for Tattersall’s Repository before he could properly fight back. 

The gentlemen’s objective of today’s sojourn was a mare. While the standard auction was not yet scheduled for another four days, Babington was not one to sleep on opportunity; and, as Sidney had been rudely reminded at the wretched hour of nine o’clock, he rather owed his friend more than a morning’s trip scrutinizing fetlocks and hindquarters and thus had been obliged to tag along.

“Give me an hour of your time and we may consider the matter of nearly-impugned honor fully resolved,” Babington had said, and just as quickly shoved a crumpled piece of paper with a sire-and-dam historical under Sidney’s nose as if he could divine a winning ticket by name and name alone.

Located at Hyde Park Corner, Tattersall’s was the premier auction house for the sale of horse, hound and carriage. It was still too early for its usual crush -- the Jockey Club was considered the place to be seen for London’s well-to-do sportsmen -- but a fair number of horses were currently led by grooms for their daily walkabout and so Sidney and Babington took a weaving, meandering route so as to avoid the worst of the muck.

“This horse must be made from golden stock,” Sidney said, “to have caught your interest and so early in the day.”

“Indeed she is purported to be, and I suppose it is only fair I explain the true meaning behind my rousing you,” Babington replied. “Before Their Graces and I found you and Miss Heywood, I was asking Auntie H for her blessing in pursuing Miss Denham’s hand. The mare was meant to be something of a proposal gift. I’ve it on good authority Miss Denham is an avid horsewoman.”

“A proposal gift,” he repeated dryly. Most men didn’t bother once they’d heard _yes_ ; and, as far as anyone knew, Miss Denham hadn’t. “So she has given you reason to believe--?”

“In her own way.”

Sidney cut his friend a wary glance. “You didn’t say anything last night.”

“It was rather hard to get a word in edgewise what with all the swooning and shouting. My matrimonial aspirations were rather set aside for your impending nuptials, weren’t they? -- which, by the by, how is that going?”

“Truth be told, I haven’t yet begun to scratch the surface. Being snatched before the sun even clipped above the horizon does that to a person.” He pulled a small grimace. “Though I must say ignorance is bliss right now. I’m afraid the stink of scandal will soon be impossible to avoid.”

“Perhaps, but avoiding the circus ring isn’t out of the realm. Miss Heywood is good friends with Miss Lambe, and so it could be surmised your acquaintance with the young lady was more strongly forged. Not all engagements must be the result of a Season’s long toil.”

“That is true enough.” He considered his friend for a moment. Babington was clearly in love with Miss Denham -- or very close to it -- and he hoped this damn horse would be favorably fruitful in seeding her affections. 

“Ah, there she is,” Babington said now, bringing them to a stall which housed his to-be prize. The horse stamped her hoof twice in response. Clearly the disturbance was far too early for her as well. “What say you, Parker? How does she look?”

“Let me see.” He considered the animal whilst leaning heavily on his walking cane. “She has four legs, a head, and a tail, which I’ve found when put together in such a fashion to be a most prosperous sign.”

“Come now. Does she not give you a feeling -- some sense of augury?” Babington looked at him with great expectation.

“Hm. Shiny coat; bright eyes.” He regarded the horse more severely. He leaned in and tilted his head for a moment before exclaiming, “Upon my word! This horse just told me I’ve a face of an ass.”

“You’re a fool, Parker,” Babington replied, “a fool _and_ a mind reader, dammit. The horse is quite right about you.”

“She seems a fine one,” he said, seriously this time. “I recognized the name of the sire -- Bucephalus Anew, was it?”

“Say, I’m surprised you actually read my note.”

Sidney harrumphed. “You ought to consult Crowe if you need a mystical opinion.”

Strangely enough, Crowe was the more accomplished horseman of the three of them; that was, to be deliberately specific, he had the best sense for said animals. They loved him for whatever reason -- perhaps sensing a kindred spirit unwilling to be bridled -- and Sidney would not have believed this to be true if he hadn’t seen one of the meanest stallion’s alive obediently nibble a cube of sugar from Crowe’s palm himself. However, as the hour was unfashionably early and Crowe was consistently fashionably indisposed until noon, Sidney had been deemed sharp enough for the day.

Which was sorely untrue for if anyone had bothered to ask him -- which Babington obviously had not upon his kidnapping -- they would have quickly ascertained his wits had left him several hours previous, snatched away by Miss Heywood and not yet returned. 

What sleep he’d had was fitful. After leaving the ball with all the haste of a man being chased by hellhounds -- stopping briefly along his route to ensure Georgiana and Miss Denham had returned to their respective chaperones, of course -- he’d spent a good portion of his night penning missives to Mr. Heywood and steadily growing drunker off a bottle of claret he’d tucked away for such dire emergencies.

Luckily he’d had the good sense to not sign nor seal any of them, lest a well-meaning servant post his incoherent epistles and prompt Mr. Heywood to ride upon London with the purpose of snatching his daughter away from him, citing insanity.

He still had to contact his solicitor, actually send Mr. Heywood a reasonable and sane letter, draw up and review the marriage contract, consult Lady Susan on the matter of specifics of the wedding, submit the engagement announcement, inform his family, break the news to Georgiana, and -- at some point -- actually _court_ his intended. They were doing everything in reverse. His temples throbbed viciously at the thought of what was to come, and what hadn’t yet been done.

As he’d told Miss Heywood the night previous, today was fit to be hectic; if only he’d known that he’d be made to step into stables last night, he might have held back from the one last glass of wine. Presently his stomach roiled at the smell of sweet hay and the stench of fresh manure. The combination was hellishly unbecoming.

“Good God,” said Babington, having finally turned away from his final inspection of the blood bay. The horse gave a whickering cry of agreement. “We ought to leave. You look as if you’re about to toss up your accounts.”

Sidney did not succumb, but knew he was dreadfully close to it. “Fresh air would suit,” he agreed.

“We’d need to get a fair way’s away from London proper for fresh,” said Babington, but having deemed what he’d seen of the mare to be enough to proceed with the purchase next Monday, they promptly made their way back to his carriage.

The ride to Bedford Place was mercifully quick, though Sidney was immediately set upon by his household staff at the behest of Babington, who bid him good-day with a smirk and an off-hand comment about donkeys as he departed. 

Before he knew it, a potent draught was poured down his throat and he was plunged into a bath. It was only the decades of good and loyal service with which his staff had provided the Parkers that prevented him from sending the turncoats to the streets.

After emerging from his chambers, however, Sidney admitted whatever potion his maid Cook had given him had settled his constitution well enough, and the hot bath had taken the feverish chills from his bones.

“Menfolk are always worse when ill,” Cook remarked solemnly as she removed the tray Sidney had cleared of fresh bread and butter from his office, but she was gone so quickly her master’s retort hit only the shut door.

With a beleaguered sigh, Sidney waded into his work.

Some time later, he emerged from the fugue of toil and found a steaming cup of tea placed within arm’s reach. How it had come to be or who had brought it in remained a mystery, but it was exactly what he needed and perfectly made to his tastes.

All his correspondence was complete; in neat order, he had his express to Mr. Heywood and his own solicitor penned, then his less urgent letters to Lady Susan, Mrs. Griffiths, and Tom and Mary -- Arthur and Diana would not cross the Channel for a little while yet, but he had a quick note penned for them as well. The bid in the paper would be sent upon Mr. Heywood’s reply, and still required the flourishes all young ladies seemed to demand in their announcements. He’d also reviewed his accounts to ensure all was in order. Upon their marriage, a new column would be made for the new Mrs. Parker and her expenses.

He remembered then their conversation at Hyde Park and her adamant resolve that women should be able to make their own way instead of relying on their husbands or their families to provide for them. Looking at his accounts, and knowing that soon he would be in charge of all her finances, her decisions, and damn near everything else, he felt a wave of guilt. It was no matter that, by their own admissions, they would have been naturally inclined to one another. He had taken away her choice. Though it was the way of the world, it still did not feel wholly right. 

He stood and went to his bookshelf. She’d asked him to level the playing field between them with a book. Drawing his finger down the spine of one that had kept him sane during the roughest squalls across the Atlantic Oceans, he resolved to do just that. It was the least he could do.

After leaving the matter of posting all business in the hands of his household, he found his carriage had already been pulled forward from the mews and readied.

“To Worcester Hall, sir?” his driver, Mr. Blythe, asked. There was a knowing twinkle in his eye Sidney chose not to address. 

Instead he climbed into the cab with little more than a grunt of agreement.

The Earl of Worcester’s London home sat in prime location and was considered beautifully built; and unlike many townhomes, a driveway to the front entrance looped away from the main thoroughfare and had a gatehouse with which one had to contend with to gain entrance. As luck would have it, Sidney had to contend very little. After a rapid exchange between Mr. Blythe and the gateman, they were waved on through without fuss.

As with the Parker household in Bedford Place, it seemed word of his coming nuptials to Miss Heywood had spread here too like wildfire.

They were greeted at the head of the drive by two footmen -- who Mr. Blythe quickly batted away as he himself leapt down from his seat to open the carriage door -- and Sidney was made to wait in the receiving hall after giving his calling card to a butler by the name of Jenkins.

Jenkins soon returned. After instructing a lower footman to accompany Mr. Blythe on to the coach house, he bid Sidney follow him.

“Her ladyship and Miss Heywood are in the tulip room,” said Jenkins, which meant very little to Sidney -- they passed what looked like three other parlor rooms along the way, as well as a music room and another that looked to be filled with only standing art and portraits.

Finally, they reached said room of tulips, and Jenkins stood to the side to announce: “Mr. Sidney Parker.”

Both Lady Susan and Miss Heywood sat therein, and being confronted with both ladies at once wreaked havoc on his nerves. Such as: how the hell did he court someone who he was already engaged to? After Eliza, he hadn’t bothered with wooing. A flirtation here and there to keep him in practice was all he’d required. Perhaps he should have taken a page from Babington’s book and bought her a horse as well. But he hadn’t thought of it and now, with tight grip on the book he’d brought with him instead of flowers, he felt as if he were again a green boy, unknowing and unsure. Luckily, it seemed as if both he and Miss Heywood were on equal footing in that regard. 

She looked almost pained to see him.

“Forgive my intrusion, Lady Susan,” he said, “Miss Heywood.”

“Not at all an intrusion. Indeed we may call it an unexpectedly delightful surprise,” said Lady Susan. “Why, Miss Heywood and I were _just_ discussing you.”

A very red flush began to creep down Miss Heywood’s neck. “Were we?”

“Talk of the devil and he shall appear, as the saying goes,” he said, but his tone was too stiff and the self-deprecating jest fell flat.

Lady Susan rallied quickly, however, and they three fell into the easy, idle talk that summarized most social visits: weather, vague remarks on health, the latest art exhibit, et cetera, et cetera. It was excruciatingly tedious, and just as the standard fifteen minutes ticked to a close, Jenkins reappeared at the door.

“It seems I am needed elsewhere,” sighed Lady Susan, and forestalled any attempt of Sidney’s to leave by asking him to keep Miss Heywood company in her stead. “I daresay another fifteen minutes alone cannot do any more harm than as already come -- right, Mr. Parker?”

It was a subtle stab that did the trick to stick him in place. With a swish of skirts and a pleasant smile, she made her exit as only the Countess of Worcester could.

Alone again -- and perhaps both remembering what had happened the night previous -- Mr. Parker and Miss Heywood regarded one another once more.

-

A long silence stretched out between them. In that time, Charlotte felt her heart start and stop several times. Mr. Parker was _here_. In Worcester Hall. And, by the look on his face, not entirely too pleased to see her. The only explanation was that he dreadfully regretted his being made to tie his lot to hers.

Then, he turned ever so slightly, and she saw he held in his hand a small book. 

_Oh_ , she thought. Perhaps it was not regret that she'd seen, but a reflection of her own anxiousness.

It felt as if an age had passed since their innocent waltz, but seeing that he’d remembered her request -- both in the form of a novel and also striving for a semblance of friendship -- did much to ease the tangle of her nerves. She’d asked him if they’d have a chance to know one another; he’d promised he’d try. She, too, had to make an attempt.

An idea struck her, then, and she joined him in standing. “Would you take a turn about the room with me, sir?”

He did not hesitate to set aside his hat -- which he set atop the nameless book -- and give her his arm. “Are you well?”

“Yes, and no,” she answered honestly. She looked up at him as they slowly began to circle the room. “I spent my morning in befuddlement and cannot seem to shake the feeling. You may laugh at me all you like, but I thought a bit of momentum would… ease the air between us.”

“Momentum?” His eyebrow arched up for but a moment before smoothing out. “Ah. Our walk. Our waltz. Indeed it seems we are at our best when we are in motion.”

“Why is that, you think?”

“I feel as if you are tempting me into a debate -- or discussion -- on Descartes’ _Passions of the Soul_.”

She laughed lightly. “I would, but I am sorry to say I have not yet read that one.”

“Has he been bowdlerized by Mr. Heywood already?”

“I doubt that. My father does not censure as perhaps they say he should.”

“They?”

“Nearly all our acquaintances in Willingden,” she explained. “We still continue the practice of reading in the family style; brothers and sisters mingling together. I must warn you, sir, that I’ve read and heard all forms of books, pamphlets and lectures, some of which I am sure I should not have. If you thought me outspoken before, I fear I will only grow worse and more volatile once I am introduced to your library.”

She saw with satisfaction that her gentle teasing had taken root -- implying that he was already worse than her for all his own reading -- as he gamely fought away a smile.

“And what of your family, Miss Heywood?” he asked. “Will you tell me about them?”

“I have rather a lot to speak on,” she replied, but at his gentle prompting, she named everyone from the eldest to the youngest. Though Miss Denham had painted a fair picture of the Parkers already, she responded with what was polite: “And your family, sir?”

“Two brothers -- an elder and a younger; Tom and Arthur -- and my sister, Diana. Tom is married to Mary, and I’ve been blessed with two nieces and nephews apiece.” He paused. “My parents, to my regret, are no longer with us.”

“I am sorry I cannot meet them.”

“As am I. They would have liked you very much.”

Her cheeks heated at this. “Very flattering.”

“Yet very true,” he said. He looked down at her again. “You said you’d like to know me, Miss Heywood, and so I’ve brought you that book.”

The walkabout came to a natural end with a few strides more; and then Mr. Parker presented her with a simply bound book. The cover was worn and faded, and the bottom edge looked discolored, as if the book had, at one point, been partially submerged in water and then later left to dry. Which, according to Mr. Parker, it had.

“I’m not sure what _Waverley_ will tell you,” he said, “but I hope it is agreeable.”

Her stomach fluttered and she fought the urge to hug the book to her chest. “I will read it with all haste,” she replied. 

Completely free of her earlier frazzled nerves and befuddlement, she was able to fully appreciate Mr. Parker’s thoughtfulness and vulnerability in giving her this gift. She was also close enough to appreciate his soft and handsome smile.

That enchantment she felt during their dance -- and devastatingly during their moment in the library -- was beginning to settle over her again, and without truly meaning to, she swayed all the closer to him. He smelled good; clean and fresh, a hint of cologne with notes she could not name.

“You’re happy with it, then,” he said, and she couldn’t very well refute his comment because indeed she was alarmingly pleased -- but that didn’t mean she would let him gloat overmuch.

Pulling a bit of Miss Denham inside of her forward, she replied, “You’ve given me a waterlogged paperback, sir.”

“And yet your smile reveals you.” Which could very well be said of Mr. Parker himself, for his own smile was quite bright indeed. “But I see you are not yet completely won. It would please me greatly if you let me try again.”

“If you must.”

“I must,” he said firmly.

Their conversation had lapsed into a parody of the normal courting back-and-forth she’d witnessed from the sidelines all her life, and Charlotte wondered if a _normal couple_ would have found this an appropriate moment for an innocent kiss. But just as quickly as the thought crossed her mind, she remembered Lady Susan’s reminder to behave. After all that had happened thus far, she did not want to think of what would become of her and Mr. Parker if they were found in an amorous embrace in the countess’ home.

Swallowing thickly, she took a half-step back. It did not break the draw of Mr. Parker away completely, but it did give her perspective. There were words for wanton women, and Charlotte was beginning to think she was well on her way to joining their ranks.

Bringing herself under regulation, she decided to alter course into more serious topics: “Have you yet written my father?”

“Sent this morning; I have all the hope he will respond quickly, though I’m guarding myself for a very sharp response indeed.”

“It is not the traditional way,” she agreed, “but as I told you once, both Papa and Mama bid me leave with a kiss on the cheek to join Polite Society in hopes I would find myself -- perhaps not with such speed -- in the very circumstances with which we find one another.”

He inclined his head. “I believe you may be undervaluing your father’s protective nature.”

“I am not, sir, but only because he knows I am able to protect myself. I’ll have you know I am a very good shot.”

“I can believe it,” he said with no skepticism whatsoever.

“And then what comes next?”

“After I’ve recovered from Mr. Heywood’s scathing response, it will be the usual way. A wedding at some point and then… life, I suppose.”

Barely restraining an eye roll, she pressed him: “Right, but -- the logistics, Mr. Parker. Where will we live? Do you stay in London year-round? Do you leave for the summer? Am I to join you? Will… will Georgiana come to stay with us?”

“All conversations to be had in time,” he replied, perhaps a little bewildered at her rapid-fire onslaught of domestic questions. “Though I am glad you mention Georgiana. After leaving Worcester Hall, I am off to Mrs. Griffiths’ to tell her the happy news. That, at least, I hope will be one less stress for you to bear.”

Charlotte was sure her stressors would be the least of Mr. Parker's concerns once Georgiana told him of the two villains laying in wait. The desire to spill all she knew and preface his visit bubbled up, but she tamped the urge down.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said. “It would be cruel to leave the announcement to be done in the papers. If I may let you leave with one request… I _know_ it is not my place to come between you both, but please: be kind.”

“For your sake?” he asked.

“For hers. Surely the thought has crossed your mind that a union between you and I leaves her with-- well, very few to confide in without worry that the thought will pass to someone else.”

His eyes narrowed, but any further response was interrupted by Jenkins, whose presence reminded all in party that the gentleman had stayed nearly three times as long as was proper.

“There is a fair next week,” Mr. Parker said quickly. “If all goes well with Miss Lambe, I had intended on taking her. It would make me very happy if you were to accompany us. With Lady Susan’s consent, of course.”

The spell of the afternoon compelled Charlotte to agree. As soon as Mr. Parker was gone, however, worry for what was to come next soon set in. Being so centrally involved in trouble and yet being unable to help solve it was a terrible thing indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Waverley](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waverley_\(novel\)) \- a novel by Sir Walter Scott; which, apparently, was not a fact known until a dinner party in 1828.
> 
> [Madame Lanchester](https://historicalromanceuk.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-mysterious-madame-lanchester.html) \- was an actual modiste!
> 
> [Tattersall's Repository](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tattersalls) \- is still around!


End file.
